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ONLY HYMAN; 

OR, 

JUSTICE. 

A NOVEL. 


BY 

JOHN STRANGE WINTER, 

Author op “The Other Man’s Wipe,” “Bootles’ Baby,” etc. 





c* iaJ 


PHILADELPHIA : 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 
1892 . 


A 


vE2>. 


Copyright, 1891, by J. B. Lippincott Company. 



Printed by J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia. 


ONLY HUMAN. 


CHAPTER I. 

ELDER AND YOUNGER. 

J ohn Broughton, the elder, was a lawyer, the head 
of a firm of long standing, which wrote Lincoln’s Inn 
Fields at the top of its note-paper and was reputed 
to be very respectable indeed. 

From father to son the business had gone down for 
several generations, -and those who knew were wont to 
say of the Broughtons that their word was their bond 
and their keeping was as safe as the Bank — meaning 
the Bank of England — which among hard-working, 
hard-headed business men is about the highest com- 
pliment that can be paid to any one. It was said too 
that there were more deeds and suchlike securities of 
value in the Broughtons’ strong-room than those in 
the outside world would readily believe, and, for the 
matter of that, it was well known that the Brough- 
tons’ strong-room was not at their offices, but had 
been constructed specially for them in the cellars of 
the bank which transacted all their money-matters. 
Time had been when the style of Broughton & Sons 
had included four or five partners, but when John 
1 


2 


ONLY HUMAN. 


Broughton was forty-five years old he was the sole 
head and representative of the old house. 

He had then been married twenty years, and had 
three sons and three daughters. The eldest had been 
called after him, John — which had been naturally 
enough shortened into Jack — then came two girls, 
Agnes and Maud, then George, then Florence, and, 
last of all, the little Benjamin of the family, Philip. 

•Between the first five there was a difference of - 
nearly two years in each case, but the baby Phil was 
five years younger than Florence, and had therefore 
been born twelve years later than Jack. 

They lived — the Broughtons — in a large old- 
fashioned house standing in its own grounds and 
situate in Brompton — and Brompton was then, let me 
tell you, little more than a suburb and not the over- j 
grown mass of bricks and mortar that it is now. 
They lived — and I am speaking of twenty -six 
years ago, mind — more like substantial landed gentry I 
than like town-bred folk, and were known for their 
charming garden-parties, their excellent dinners, and j 
their irreproachable wines. Their sons were sent to J 
the best public schools — young Jack began the scholas- 
tic traditions of that branch of the family by going 
to Eton; their girls had foreign nurses, expensive 
governesses, and the best masters. Mrs. Broughton 
had her neat brougham and her natty open carriage, 1 
her butler and footman, and all the surroundings of 
a rich man’s wife. In short, the Broughtons lived at 
the rate of some six or seven thousand a year at a 
time when extravagance and show were not the order 
of the day, as they are now. 


ELDER AND YOUNGER. 


3 


So the young Brouglitons grew up accustomed from 
their birth to all the advantages of being comfortably 
wealthy; and Jack being the eldest son — in a measure 
the heir — invariably thought of himself, and was 
thought of by others, as a young man who had the 
world at his feet. 

Well, Jack Broughton left Eton when he was 
eighteen and was at once articled to his father, that 
he in turn might become the head of the business in 
Lincoln’s Inn Fields. There had never been any 
question as to what Jack’s profession should be; he 
was arranged for as a matter of course, as much so as 
if his profession had been a birthright. Left to 
himself, it is probable that he would have been a 
soldier by choice, but, all the same, the boy had no 
particular objection to the course which his father 
had laid down for him. 

“ When you have got through your articles,” John 
Broughton said to his son on the day that he came of 
age, “ I should like you to go on for three months 
as you are, and then I will take you into partnership. 
I have seen so many instances of trouble in old firms 
owing to delay in taking in new blood, that I have 
always determined to give my sons a margin of three 
months between their articles and partnerships — 
junior partnerships, of course, Jack.” 

“Oh, of course, sir,” answered Jack, readily. 

So time went on; the five years of Jack’s articles 
sped by, and he was admitted an attorney-at-law, and 
true to his word, after three months had gone by, 
Jack became a partner in the old firm and his father 
fixed his portion at five hundred a year. 


4 


ONLY HUMAN. 


By this time Jack Broughton was getting on for 
twenty-four, and was as handsome a young fellow 
as you could wish to meet in a day’s march. Tall 
and broad-shouldered he was, with close-cut brown 
hair and dancing blue eyes that looked somewhat out 
of keeping with the sombre rooms in which he passed 
the business hours of the day. 

But Jack was a good man of business. “ The boy 
is no fool, Annabel,” John Broughton said to his 
wife one day when Jack had successfully carried 
through a tough bit of business. “ A little reckless, 
but none the worse for that, perhaps; we don’t want 
to put old heads on to young shoulders.” 

“No — no,” she replied, “I have no fear about 
Jack — he will always be able to make his way.” 

“ I hope he will,” said John Broughton, with what 
was almost a sigh. 

Mrs. Broughton looked up in some surprise. 
“Why, John,” she exclaimed, “is anything wrong? 
Are you keeping anything back from me? Don’t 
you feel well? What is it?” 

John Broughton pulled himself up instantly. “ No, 
Annabel, my dear,” he said hurriedly. “ I’m a little 
overworked — that is all. It makes me a shade gloomy 
at times — I shall be glad when Jack gets a good firm, 
gripe on the business, and then we will take a good 
long holiday together — just you and I.” 

But John Broughton and his wife never did take a 
good long holiday together — “just you and I,” as he 
had put it. .That autumn they had a house up- the 
river, and John came into town nearly every day for 
business; and before another holiday-time had come 


ELDER AND YOUNGER. 


5 


round he was peacefully taking that long, long holi- 
day which will come to all of us one day, for on the 
27th of the following June John Broughton died. 

Nobody quite knew how it was. He had been dull, 
though not actually ailing, since the early part of the 
year, and his wife had been anxious and uneasy about 
him, without quite knowing why. 

“John, I am sure something is wrong,” she said 
to him more than once ; “ do confide in me, dear. 
Are we spending too much money?” ' 

But each time that she had spoken of money, John 
Broughton had determinedly put the subject aside 
and had afterward increased rather than decreased 
their expenditure; for a day or two after the first 
time that she had broached the subject he put some- 
thing into her hand when he came in at dinner-time. 
“ I haven’t given you a present for a long time, Anna- 
bel,” he said tenderly. “ I hope you will like this.” 

She did like it, any woman would have liked it, 
for within the case was a magnificent diamond star. 
“ Why, John! ” she said. She was so surprised. 

“ I see you like it,” he said, smiling at her. “ You 
women are all alike.” 

Another time it was a new piano that he bought for 
Maudie, who was music-mad and had long been dis- 
satisfied with the old Broadwood grand that had been 
one of her mother’s wedding-presents. And another 
day he had given Aggie a check for twenty pounds 
in a casual way, as a little extra to her ample dress- 
allowance. 

By these means Mrs. Broughton’s mind had been 
quite set at rest as to expenses ; indeed, in all her life she 


6 


ONLY HUMAN. 


had never had to think about them at all. And then 
when the end came, quite quietly and unexpectedly 
from a sort of failure of the heart’s action and every- 
thing else, Mrs. Broughton set all these things down 
to the score of his failing health rather than to what 
was in truth their real cause, which she did not 
indeed know. 

With much pomp and ceremony — as was the cus- 
tom of those days — the greatly respected lawyer was 
laid in his last resting-place, and afterward the fam- 
ily returned to the Monk’s House to luncheon — also 
a fashion of twenty years ago — and then met in the 
library, where they were joined by the widow, who 
had not appeared at table, that they might hear the 
will read. 

It was very simple. To Jack was left the business 
in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, with a provision that he 
should take his father’s place in giving his two 
brothers their articles, unless they should strongly 
desire to adopt other professions. That they should, 
if they had duly served their articles, be taken into 
partnership, having a certain share for five years and 
an equal share after that time. 

To his dear wife, Annabel, was left the absolute 
guardianship of the younger children, the Monk’s 
House and furniture, the testator’s other houses, 
lands, carriages and entire property, to be divided by 
her at her death as she should think most proper 
among their children. To each of his executors, of 
whom Jack was one, was left the sum of five hundred 
pounds. 

And that evening J ack Broughton told his mother 


ELDER AND YOUNGER. 


7 


a secret, a secret concerning himself — the news that 
the very evening before his father had slipped so sud- 
denly and quietly from among them, he had settled 
his fate in life and had asked the girl he loved to 
marry him. “ I know it’s not a time to he talking 
of marriages,” he said in apologetic tones when he 
saw the tears in his mother’s eyes, “ hut I should have 
told you both that night if you had been up when I 
got in ; and the next day I never had a chance or in- 
deed a thought of saying a word. But now I feel as 
if you ought to know about it.” 

“My dear boy,” said Mrs. Broughton tenderly, 
“ if you are half as happy as your father and I have 
been, I shall be satisfied. I am glad you have told 
me now. I hope she is nice and good ; and — and — 
you won’t ask me to see her very soon, will you?” 

“ Certainly not — of course not!” cried Jack, putting 
his arm protectingly round her. 

“And her name?” asked Mrs. Broughton. 

“Is Mary Featherstone, ” Jack replied. 


CHAPTER II. 


MIDGE. 

Whem John Broughton’s affairs came to be looked 
into and wound up, there was not so much money as 
had been expected by those who knew him best. As 
a matter of. fact, there was something under thirty 
thousand pounds, on the income of which Mrs. 
Broughton had to live, bring up, educate, and possi- 
bly put out into the world her two younger sons and 
her three daughters, none of whom were married. 

Of course, as her trustees obligingly told her, it is 
impossible to eat your cake and have it. Jack, after 
all, would get the lion’s share, and if she and John had 
been content to live at half the expense at which they 
had lived ever since they were married, why, she would 
have been rich enough, now that he was dead, to have 
gone on without making any difference in her way of 
living. 

Instead of this, however, they had lived at a rate 
of six or seven thousand a year, and the wonder was 
that John Broughton had been able to leave his widow 
so substantial a fortune as he had done. But to Mrs. 
Broughton it seemed that she was come down into 
quite straitened circumstances. She could not possi- 
bly remain at the Monk’s House, which was large and 
needed at least eight in-door servants to keep up 
properly. She had to think of Phil’s schools and of 
8 


MIDGE. 


9 


Flossie’s masters, and how was she to send Phil to 
Eton, as his brothers had gone before him, on an 
income of but twelve hundred a year? 

Certainly the very first thing to do would he to let 
the Monk’s House and to move into a much less costly 
one. Then young J ack stepped in with a new idea. 

Why should she not let the Monk’s House to him, 
and after she had taken away enough furniture for 
her new house, hand over all that was left to him at 
a valuation? And to this Mrs. Broughton agreed. 

Eventually she took a house about ten minutes’ 
walk from her old home, transferred to it quite the 
best of the furniture, pictures, plate, and bric-a-brac, 
and left Jack in possession of the Monk’s House, and 
all that remained. And when Jack married Mary 
Featherstone, who was well born and exceedingly 
pretty, hut who had not a penny in the world to call 
her own, and after a delightful honeymoon brought 
her back to the Monk’s House to, as he put it, “ camp 
out ” while they got the place put into order, he found 
that a great share of the furniture that was left was 
neither more nor less than absolute rubbish, and — as 
is nearly always the case when you begin patching up 
an old thing — he made away with this and got rid of 
the other to such an extent that, at last, the Monk’s 
House was simply refurnished from top to bottom 
and on a scale of magnificence that had not existed 
before. 

Nobody saw anything wrong. Mrs. Broughton 
sighed as she looked round, and compared the spaci- 
ous rooms, which had been her home for twenty-five 
years, very unfavorably with the cramped proportions 


10 


ONLY HUMAN. 


of her new abode; but— Jack had come into a busi- 
ness, or I ought to say a practice, worth eight or nine 
thousand a year, and he could afford to furnish his 
house properly while he Was about it. The girls en- 
vied their new sister-in-law her pretty frocks and furs 
and ornaments, not unkindly, but as girls will, espe- 
cially as she was wearing colors and they were still in 
mourning for their father. But nobody thought Jack 
to blame for indulging his pretty young wife in all 
those pleasures which he was now able to give her ; 
and Mary herself thought her new life a perfect 
paradise. 

“ You know, Jack,” she said one day to him about 
a year after his father’s death, “ I do think it hard 
your sisters can’t go out more; they are shut up, 
poor things, as if — well, as if they would never want 
to get married at all.” 

“ Little match-maker!” Jack laughed. 

“Not at all,” she returned seriously. “I hate and 
detest match-making. But they are getting on. 
Aggie is twenty-three, and she ought to have a chance 
of getting settled. But when I ever want to take 
them anywhere, your mother always says they have 
nothing to wear — which is true — and that she can’t 
afford to dress three girls well and send Phil to Eton 
too. ” 

“I dare say it’s true enough,” Jack admitted 
gravely. “ You know, Midge, when you’ve had six or 
seven thousand a year and you come down to twelve 
hundred, it must be a tight pinch. I dare say my 
mother feels it so. But why don’t you give the girls 
a frock or two ” 


MIDGE. 


11 


“ Jack !” she burst out indignantly. “ What do you 
take me for? Is it likely that I — a girl without a 
penny — would insult them by buying them clothes 
with your money, with their own brother’s money?” 

“ By Jove! what a head you have! / never thought 
of all that,” he said. “ But what do you want me to 
do? What do you propose?” 

Mrs. Jack looked down then at him with undis- 
guised admiration, he was so big and broad, so 
debonair. He had such an easy way of settling 
money-matters — just a wave of the hand and a lordly 
pat, as if a word was enough, which it generally was. 
Of a truth Mrs. Jack, who had all her life been as 
poor as a church mouse and as proud as Lucifer, was 
completely dazzled by her husband’s lordly manner. 

“Well?” he said interrogatively. 

“ Well, Jack, could not you tell your mother that 
you will pay Phil’s Eton bills?” 

“Yes. I might,” half doubtfully. 

“ Would they be very much?” 

“Yes — a good bit — still, I think you’re right, 
Midge, and I’ll do that. And I think we must make 
things a bit gayer for the girls — we might have a 
dance or two.” 

Mrs. Jack was nothing loth, and entered into the 
idea with such right good earnest that the invitations 
were soon out and all the arrangements satisfactorily 
in train. And what a lot of money that dance did 
cost! 

Nor was it the last. Mrs. Jack took to spending 
five thousand a year as readily as a duck takes to 
water. Having given one dance, she wanted to give 


12 


ONLY HUMAN. 


more. Having once used her influence with Jack to 
help his mother in the matter of Phil’s Eton hills, 
she very soon got into a habit of persuading Jack to 
put his hand in his pocket for everything that the 
family required. Nor did she forget to ask him for 
everything that she wished for herself. 

“Jack, I do wish you’d buy me a diamond neck- 
lace!” she said coaxingly to him one afternoon when 
she had fetched him from the office a little earlier 
than usual. 

“A diamond necklace, Midge!” he cried, with a 
burst of laughter. “ Why, what in the world do you 
want a diamond necklace for?” 

“ What do I want it for? Why, to wear, of course !” 
she answered. “ Why, last night at Lady Crosshamp- 
ton’s, I was almost the only woman in the room 
without one!” 

“ And you were a deuced sight prettier than any 
other woman there,” Jack declared. 

“Ah! but think how much prettier I should be in 
a diamond necklace, Jack,” she urged. “Indeed, I 
do want one; I don’t see how I’m to get on any 
longer without one!” 

“ By Jove ! Midge, but you are getting on, all the 
same!” he cried, with a burst of admiration. 

Mrs. Jack turned her head away. “I think you’re 
very unkind, Jack,” she said, frowning. 

Now Jack could not bear to see his wife frown, so 
he got hold of her hand under cover of the fur 
carriage-rug and held it fast. 

“Nay, I didn’t mean to vex you, my darling,” he 
said tenderly. “ If a diamond necklace is essential 


MIDGE. 


13 


to your happiness, you must have it. What sort of 
a one do you want?” 

Mrs. Jack’s frown faded immediately. “ Oh, you 
dear old Jack,” she exclaimed, “how I do love you! 
Well, I saw such a beauty at Denver’s this morning; 
it was only five hundred guineas.” 

He did start perceptibly as she named the price, 
but all the same he went with her to Denver’s and 
bought the necklace, which Mrs. Jack carried home 
in triumph. 

“ I can’t pay for it,” he said jokingly; “ I had no 
idea you were bringing me on this errand, and I don’t 
carry five hundred pounds loose in my pocket.” 

“That will be all right, sir,” said the jeweller 
suavely. 

“Will it? Then you can send down to my office 
about twelve o’clock to-morrow,” Jack said easily. 

So it was arranged ; and as they drove home and 
Mrs. Jack kept taking peeps within the case, Jack 
uttered just one word of warning. “ You won’t want 
any more diamonds for a good bit, will you?” he said. 

“No — of course not, Jack! Oughtn’t I to have 
had these?” she asked, half ashamed. 

“Oh! Yes — yes; only there’s an end to one’s 

money, Midge, that’s all,” he said fondly. 


CHAPTEK III. 


A DESPERATE ERRAND ! 

John Broughton had been dead more than five 
years. At the Monk’s House Jack and his wife still 
lived as gayly as they had done during the first year 
of their reign. 

Two of Jack’s sisters were well married, thanks 
chiefly to Mrs. Jack’s good offices; Flossie, the 
younge.st girl, was engaged ; and of the two younger 
boys, George had long ago gone to his ruin, and was 
at present earning a precarious living in the States 
by the noble profession of loafing, while Phil, who had 
resolutely scouted the idea of becoming a lawyer, had 
chosen the army as his future, and was now in a line 
regiment, on an allowance of two hundred a year, 
which his mother and Jack supplied between them. 

For a long time Master Phil had stoutly held out 
for a commission in a cavalry regiment, but finding 
that neither mother nor brother were in the least 
moved by his arguments in favor thereof, and that it 
would be the line or nothing, he put his prejudices 
into his pocket and somewhat ungraciously consented 
to become what he had before contemptuously called 
“a dirty mud-crusher.” 

So Mrs. Broughton and Flossie were alone together 
in the modern house which they had so hated at first 
but which was amply large for them now. Mrs. 

14 


A DESPERATE ERRAND! 


15 


Broughton had started a brougham again, and felt 
more like her old self in consequence than she had 
done at any time since her husband’s death. It is 
true that the brougham and horse were kept in Jack’s 
stables at the Monk’s House, but then Mrs. Brough- 
ton always paid the coachman’s wages, and the rest 
was a detail about which she did not trouble herself, 
since Jack did not do so. 

In one respect Jack and his wife had been fortu- 
nate — they had not a large family. In fact, they had 
only, one child, a little girl, to use the roomy nursery 
which had been large enough for six in Mr. Brough- 
ton’s time. And little Marjory was a strong and win- 
some child, who had never been the smallest trouble 
to anybody, and whose advent had not in any way 
stemmed the tide of gayety which her father and 
mother so unconcernedly made their every-day life. 

Then all at once there came a change — a change 
which was as sudden in its way as the death of Jack’s 
father had been. 

It happened at the end of May that Mrs. Jack had 
been at a great lunch-party; she had then paid several 
visits, and on reaching home rested in her boudoir 
for half an hour before she allowed herself to be 
dressed for dinner. 

She was very well contented with herself and her 
surroundings. More than once she looked round the 
room and compared it with some of those into which 
she had been that day. Yes, it was a pretty room — 
the windows hung with palest blue silken hangings, 
and the furniture was of satin-wood cushioned with 
rich brocade matching in color the drapings of the 


16 


ONLY HUMAN. 


windows. The walls were cream-tinted ; the pictures 
had slight gold frames and broad margins, and there 
was a good deal of creamy lace about the room— edg- 
ing the large silken cushions, draping the windows, 
falling from the mantel-border, gathered on the backs 
of the low chairs and held in place by small bows of 
blue ribbon. Yes — a pretty room as was the fashion 
of nearly twenty years ago. We should call it fright- 
ful now. 

And Mrs. Jack, who had thrown off her walking- 
gown for a loose robe of a darker blue than the hang- 
ings of the room, sat before the fire, resting. A pretty 
woman, nay, more, a lovely woman she was! She 
had been very pretty at the time of her marriage, fair 
and a little cold, with proud, serene eyes, dove-gray 
and rather haughty. Now the pale face with its 
masses of fair hair, not golden in any sense, but of a 
pure blond tint, was less cold than it had been 
then. She looked as if she was happy and content, and 
her eyes and lips smiled in unison. 

She dressed for dinner in good time, making a 
careful toilet, for they were going to two important 
parties afterward. She wore the diamond neck- 
lace which Jack had bought for her at Denver’s, a 
tiara, one of his later gifts, twinkled among the 
masses of her fair hair, and a set of fine diamond 
stars shone in the her the of her white gown. And 
when she was ready she looked in the glass and knew 
that she was lovely. 

Jack was late. The clock struck half-past seven, 
but he had not come. Mrs. Jack went down to the 
boudoir and waited. Eight o’clock — no Jack! Half- 


A DESPERATE ERRAND! 


17 


past eight — still he did not come ! What could he 
keeping him? Never had she known him to do this 
before. What could it mean? 

At nearly nine came a telegram — “Detained in 
city — don’t wait.” So, with a sigh of relief, Mrs. 
Jack sat down alone to the now nearly ruined dinner. 

About half-past ten Jack came. “ Oh, Jack!” she 
cried — for she saw by his white face that something, 
terrible had happened — “what is it?” 

“ Midge,” he gasped, “ I’m ruined. That’s what’s 
the matter.” 

“Oh, Jack!” 

She shrank away from him with a scared white 
face. Jack laughed aloud — a harsh, fiendish laugh. 

“What!” he cried roughly. “Are you afraid of 
me? By Jove! you’ve helped me to make the money 
fly, and now — now — ha! ha!” 

“Oh, Jack!” she cried piteously. 

The sound of tears in her sweet voice broke him 
down at once. “ Forgive me, Midge — I’m beside my- 
self. I — I don’t know what I’m talking about. If — 
listen, Midge, I must get out of this. I got into a 
corner and I used securities which didn’t belong to 
me. I thought I should put them back and nobody 
would know — and they wouldn’t have done only 
they’ve been asked for. I’m in a devil of a mess, 
Midge, and I must get out of the country at once. 
Do you understand?” 

She stared at him like one fascinated, looked round 
the pretty, luxurious room, and a sob rose in her 
throat. “Look here, Midge,” Jack went on, “you 
must back me up. Get me all your jewels, all you 


18 


ONLY HUMAN. 


don’t want to make a show with to-night — I will 
make a bolt of it. You go to your parties, and join 
me in Paris when the coast is clear.” 

“Go to parties!” she echoed, hardly understand- 
ing. 

“Yes; and get that scared look out of your eyes;* 
put rouge on your face — laugh — flirt — none can do 
that better than you can — anything to put them off 
the scent for a few days or hours. Ah, what’s that?” 

There was a sound of parleying at the door, a dis- 
tinct “In the Queen’s name,” then footsteps cross- 
ing the hall. Jack uttered an exclamation — “ Top 
late, the dogs are loose already,” — and the next mo- 
ment the police were in the room. 

“ Best to go quietly, Mr. Broughton,” said the chief 
man civilly; “ it’s very unpleasant for us, sir, but we 
must do our duty.” 

“ Oh, yes — yes — I’m not going to make a fuss. I 
must speak to my wife, though.” 

The men fell back. Jack turned to his wife. “ I 
may get over this, Midge,” he said doubtfully, “but 
if I don’t ” 

“Jack!” she asked in a whisper, “who is the 
man?” 

“ How?” 

“Who — who sent these men?” 

“ Sir James Craddock!” 

“ Could he save you if he would?” 

“ Yes — but he won’t — he’s as hard as nails and as 
merciless as sin. Good-by, my darling, good-by.” 

He tore himself away, and as soon as the front door 
was closed Mrs. Jack rang the bell. “ Page, the 


A DESPERATE ERRAND! 


19 


brougham at once!” she said, in a tone which admit- 
ted of no delay. 

The man cast a curious glance at her, wondering 
what had gone wrong. Mrs. Jack ran upstairs. 
“Marie — a cloak; no — no — not those,” motioning 
away the fan and gloves and the delicately perfumed 
handkerchief which the maid held out to her. “ Is it 
ready?” she asked impatiently, when she reached the 
hall again. “Ah! I hear it.” 

She was so eager that she went out on to the wide 
step before the carriage had drawn up. “ To Sir 
James Craddock’s, Belgrave Square — drive fast,” she 
said. 

It seemed as if they would never get there. Ah ! at 
last. But she could not wait to hear if the man she 
sought was within. “ Sir James — is he in? I must 
see him at once — on a matter of life and death.” 

Then, as the library door was opened and she caught 
sight of a gray-haired man in evening dress sitting 
near the fire reading, she ran forward and fell upon 
her knees beside his chair. “ Oh, Sir James,” she 
cried, “you don’t know me, but I’m Mrs. Jack 
Broughton, and I have come to beseech you for God’s 
sake to have mercy upon my husband!” 


CHAPTER IV. 


SIR JAMES CRADDOCK. 

The Broughtons had been legal advisers to the 
Craddock family for many and many a year. All the 
Craddock affairs were in the hands of the Broughtons, 
and as the Craddocks were rich, very rich people, this 
meant, of course, a great amount of responsibility and 
a great deal of business. 

The Craddocks were not people of the aristocracy, 
although Sir James was a baronet and lived in Bel- 
grave Square. They had been rich for generations, 
rich merchants on a very large scale, and Sir James, 
having served his day and generation with both his 
wealth and his personal services, had been rewarded 
with a title, which he cared little about himself, but 
which he was glad enough that his only son should 
bear after him. 

In matters of business Sir James Craddock was 
very much what his dead friend, John Broughton, 
had been — a just and upright man, proud of his un- 
blemished integrity; a man who invariably acted up 
to the fact that his word was his bond; a man who 
would always carry out the spirit of a bargain, even 
where the letter thereof might have given him the 
distinct advantage. 

And yet Sir James Craddock, upright, honorable, 
just as he was, was perhaps as hard as only a very up- 
20 


SIR JAMES CRADDOCK. 


21 


right man can be ! Himself incapable of a dishonest 
action, he had no mercy for those who were not able 
to withstand the hour of temptation. In the great 
city house of which he was the head, such clerks as 
remained in faithful service for a certain number of 
years might he sure of a comfortable provision for 
their declining years or in case of ill-health overtak- 
ing them ; but did one yield to temptation and help 
himself to what was not his, or find himself unable to 
resist outside persuasions to reveal certain facts, that 
one need look for no mercy from the head of the 
house. So far as Craddocks’ (as the house was always 
called in the city) was concerned, that man might 
just as well go out like Judas and hang himself, for 
any hope of forgiveness or of being taken into favor 
again. 

And in his private life Sir James Craddock was 
just the same. There were rules in the house in Bel- 
grave Square which, like the laws of the Medes and 
Persians, altered not; if Lady Craddock had over- 
stepped her very ample dress-allowance, the amount 
overdrawn would simply have been quietly and 
severely stopped from her next quarter’s check. 
If Sir James’ only son committed certain offences 
incidental to boyish existence, he knew perfectly well 
what the result would be. It was the same with the 
four girls of the family. And yet, he was not an 
unpopular man; he was kind, generous, and very 
affectionate; his wife, children, servants, and those 
employed in his business all regarded him as the best 
and kindest of men, and loved as much as they feared 
him. And this was the man to whom Mrs. Jack 


22 


ONLY HUMAN. 


Broughton came in her distress and agony, to sue for 
mercy for her husband, who had robbed and deceived 
him. 

Now it happened that the offence which Jack 
Broughton had committed against Sir James was the 
*one of all others which he most heartily despised and 
loathed — that is, the so-called “ borrowing” of securi- 
ties with which to tide over a bad time in speculation 
or pay for a too-high rate of living. 

As a matter of fact, Jack had been “borrowing” 
securities on all hands ever since his father’s death ? 
he was one of those men, brilliantly clever and full 
of daring and dash, who are always on the eve of the 
biggest thing ever yet known in the world of spec- 
ulation. The legal business had gone down terribly 
since John Broughton’s death; it had for that matter 
been going down for ten years previous to that occur- 
rence ; and it now consisted almost entirely of the old 
family clients, who had been accustomed for many 
years to trust in the Broughtons as being as safe as 
the bank. More than once before Jack had found 
himself in an ugly corner, but his luck had always 
stood him in good stead, and a timely windfall had 
enabled him to replace all that he had “ borrowed” 
for the time ; or, if not to replace all, at least to re- 
place as much as was necessary to produce in order 
to prevent any suspicions of his honesty from aris- 
ing. 

At last, however, as many another had done before 
him, Jack Broughton found himself fairly in a corner, 
with every bit of speculation in which he had dabbled 
gone down to nothing, with his expenses increasing 


SIR JAMES CRADDOCK. 


23 


daily, his credit drained to the uttermost farthing, 
and a request from Sir James Craddock to hand over 
the whole of the securities in his keeping within a 
period of twenty-four hours. 

Now it happened that the circumstance which 
first aroused Sir James’ suspicion was that of his 
actually being shown some of his own securities, worth 
upward of sixty thousand pounds, which up to then 
he had confidently believed to be safe in the Brough- 
tons’ strong-room. This, of course, at once made him 
request the immediate production of every paper of 
value belonging to him that Jack Broughton held. 
And on Jack the request fell like a thunderbolt. 

In a moment he guessed the reason for this sudden 
and unusual request ; he knew who had betrayed him ! 
He was almost beside himself ; the whole of that day 
he went about among those who had helped him before, 
begging, praying, imploring for enough help to enable 
him to redeem such securities as were for the time 
out of his keeping. He offered his house and furni- 
ture, his wife’s jewelry, his horses, carriages, all that 
he had in the world ; but, alas ! fifteen thousand pounds 
was all that he was able to raise, and the amount 
necessary to redeem Sir James’ securities was some- 
thing like four times that sum ! Then, finding his 
time growing short, he went home with that desper- 
ate scheme in his head for getting out of the country 
with all that he could lay his hands upon, leaving his 
wife to face the exposure and join him afterward as 
best she could. However, we have already seen how 
that little plan came to nothing, and how Mrs. Jack, 
in her trailing white robes, went as fast as a horse 


24 


ONLY HUMAN. 


could carry her to the house of Sir James Craddock 
in quest of mercy. 

“ You don’t know me,” she cried, flinging herself 
on her knees before him; “but I’m Mrs. Jack 
Broughton, and I have come to beseech you, for 
God’s sake, to have mercy upon my husband.” 

She had perhaps never in her life looked so utterly 
lovely as she did in the hour of her distress. The 
white fur-bordered cloak which she had wrapped about 
her, but in her feverish eagerness had not fastened, 
had fallen to the floor, revealing her beautiful neck 
and arms, scarcely less white than the gown she wore. 
The diamonds around her throat and in her hair 
gleamed and scintillated in the lamplight, which shone 
too on her pale face and soft dove eyes, now dark with 
pain and unshed tears. 

“I beg you will get up, madam,” exclaimed Sir 
James, starting to his feet and with stiff courtesy 
making a gesture as if to assist her to rise. 

But Mrs. Jack cowered still lower and tried to clasp 
his feet with her jewelled hands. “ Oh ! sir — sir — 
don’t turn from me like that!” she cried as he stepped 
back. “ Believe me it is a wretched and heart-broken 
woman who kneels to you to-night.” 

“ Your dress is not the garb of a broken-hearted 
woman, madam,” remarked the other coldly. 

The icy tone stung her in spite of the violence of 
her emotion, and she rose to her feet and moved away 
to the large table. “Let me give you a chair,” Sir 
James said politely. 

Mrs. Jack shook her head. “ No — I don’t want to 


SIR JAMES CRADDOCK. 


25 


sit down. I — I,” with a long-drawn breath, “ I only 
want one thing.” 

“Which I cannot give you, madam,” he put in 
quietly. 

“Oh, sir — do not say that! Will you listen to 
me?” she cried imploringly. 

“ Of course — but it is only prolonging a very pain- 
ful interview, which must be most distressing to you, 
and which is, I assure you, equally so to me.” 

But poor little Midge did not know the kind of 
man with whom she had to deal ; she had never seen 
him before, although she had often heard her hus- 
band speak enthusiastically of him as one of the best 
fellows in the whole world. She believed if she could 
only induce him to listen to her that she would as- 
suredly be enabled to. influence his decision ; that she 
would, in fact, save Jack. 

“ But I beg you will sit down,” said Sir James, 
motioning toward a chair. 

“I am keeping you standing,” she exclaimed. 
“ Then I will ; if you will only listen to me I will do 
anything — anything. You said just now,” she went 
on eagerly, “ that my dress was not the garb of a 
heart-broken woman; but, Sir James” — leaning for- 
ward over the table and looking at him with sad eyes 
full of yearning misery — “ I wasn’t heart-broken when 
I put this gown on. You forget, it only takes a few 
seconds to break the lightest heart in the world,” and 
then she gave way altogether, and, bending her head 
over her hands, sobbed bitterly. 

If the truth be told, never in all his life had Sir 


26 


ONLY HUMAN. 


James Craddock been so nearly moved to throw his 
principles to the four winds of heaven as he was at 
that moment. Mrs. Jack’s beautiful sad face, her 
eloquent gestures, her abandonment of grief — all 
helped to stir his heart and make him forget for a 
moment that he was one of the sternest as well as one 
of the justest and kindest of men. He got up from 
his chair and walked to the fireplace ; then he looked 
back on the bowed, lovely head, the gleaming shoulders 
heaving now with scarcely suppressed grief, and in 
another instant the day would have been hers. Then, 
alas for her, the lamplight fell upon the diamond 
necklace which encircled her throat and bathed it in 
a narrow stream of fire ! His heart was hardened in 
a moment, and he strode back to his seat, impassively 
waiting until she should say her say. 


CHAPTER V. 


stop! 

A few minutes passed ere she could control herself 
sufficiently to speak ; th6n she cast a piteous look at 
him. “Forgive me, sir,” she said, very humbly; “I 
have no right to come here unbidden to inflict a scene 
upon you; I beg you to forgive me.” 

Sir James made a deprecating gesture. “Pray, 
Mrs. Broughton, say no more about it ; your grief is 
very natural, most natural.” 

It was the first time that he had used her name, and 
she caught at it as a little ray of hope and began her 
story. “ I had not until less than an hour ago the 
very smallest suspicion that anything was wrong with 
Jack’s affairs,” she said simply. “I was going to a 
party, as you see, when he came in and told me— oh ! 
Sir James, I hardly know what, except that he had 
taken papers of yours which he had meant to put 
back — and — and while he was telling me the police 
came and — and they took him away.” 

“ Ah !” said Sir James involuntarily. The exclama- 
tion escaped his lips and told the wretched wife’s 
quick ears that he had expected to hear of the arrest 
during the evening. Then he turned to her again. 
“ Yes?” he said. 

“I came,” she said, “because I felt all in a mo- 
27 


28 


ONLY HUMAN. 


ment that if Jack had done wrong it was because of 
me — that it was all my fault. Not that I knew it, as 
I told you ; but I was young when I was married — a 
few months after his father died. I was a lady, sir, 
but I had always been poor, poor enough to have to 
count every penny before spending it. And Jack 
was young, too, sir, and he was very fond of me; 
nothing seemed too much for him to give me, and 
I — I was so ignorant of money that I never had a 
thought until this very night that we might be living 
at too great a cost — spending too much. Jack fur- 
nished the house without regard to expense, and his 
mother, who ought to have known, only envied me 
and grumbled at her own house and her own income, 
both of which would have been riches to me a year 
before. She never said to me — ‘Are you and Jack 
not spending too much? Had you not better be care- 
ful and put more money by? Is everything right 
that you are able to live in this style, where his father 
left off?’ No, not a word; and I led Jack on — I see 
it now — into one expense after another — this — and 
this — and this” — touching her necklace and the 
gleaming bracelets on her arms — “ and how was I to 
know, sir, vhen they all seemed to think it was only 
a matter of course? Then I persuaded Jack to help 
his mother, to pay Phil’s Eton bills, to give dances 
and parties for the girls, to have his mother’s 
brougham kept in our stables (which meant that she 
paid for the coachman, and nothing else), and they 
seemed to think it was all right, and Jack was drawn 
on, on — and I did it. Oh ! Sir James, I was so young 
and so ignorant — I had no father or mother to warn 


STOP ! 29 

me, no brother who knew what the world is — no one. 
It is all my fault — won’t you forgive me?” 

Sir James got up and went to the fire again. He 
was a heavily-built, handsome man, with black hair 
turning gray and dark, deep-set eyes. He was sorely 
tried at that moment between his inclination to listen 
to the sweet, imploring voice which pleaded with such 
pathetic earnestness for mercy and the dictates of 
those principles which had ruled all the fifty years of 
his life. 

‘‘Mrs. Broughton,” he said, less coldly, “you make 
it very hard for me. I have others besides myself to 
think of in this' matter.” 

She rose and came toward him, her fair face quiv- 
ering with emotion, and she laid her hands on his 
arm. “ Sir James, ” she said, “ if you let mercy sway 
you this once I don’t think you will ever regret it. 
Jack will retrieve the past — and I will help him, keep- 
ing always in my heart my great debt to you, which 
I can never wholly repay in this world. But you 
will have mercy, won’t you?” clasping his hands in 
her feverish grasp. “ And I will work day and night. 
I will live in one room without a servant; I — I will 
cheerfully scrub floors to make a sou to help to pay 
off Jack’s debt. I will be your devoted slave all the 
rest of my life, and I will pray God to bless you day 
and night — day and night. Only say that you will, 
Sir James,” she went on eagerly, fancying that he 
was wavering and pressing nearer to him in her 
anxiety. “ I have a child, one dear little innocent 
child, asleep in her little bed at this moment, all un- 
knowing of the trouble that hangs over her mother’s 


30 


ONLY HUMAN. 


heart. Perhaps you have children, too ; then you can 
feel for me." 

“ I do feel for you," he said uneasily. 

“Then, if you feel for me, spare my poor Jack," 
she urged; “make me happy. You will sleep the 
better for it! Oh, sir, say that you will! See — I will 
give you this toward the debt ; it cost five hundred 
pounds." 

She unclasped her necklace as she spoke and thrust 
it into his hand. 

He started as if he had been stung. “ Pray take 
your necklace again, Mrs. Broughton," he said very 
coldly ; “ I cannot have it. I am sorry — far more 
sorry perhaps than you would think — to have to say 
no to your entreaties; but as I told you before there 
are others to be considered besides myself. I, too, 
have children, and they must be provided for." 

She began to feel faint — to feel that the world was 
slipping away from her, and Jack’s good name was 
just falling out of the grasp of her poor little nerve- 
less hands. She felt so powerless, both in body and 
mind, to help him even a little. 

“ Sir James," she said, “Jack shall pay you flyback 
again ; I promise you that, if it takes all our lives to 
do it." 

“ Mrs. Broughton," he answered, looking down 
into her clouded eyes, “ it seems to me that you have 
no idea of the extent of your husband’s liabilities. 
Have you any idea of what sum he has defrauded me?" 

“ No," she answered. She was growing more faint 
with each moment, but she did manage to keep her 
senses, though by a great effort. 


stop! 


31 


“ It is over sixty thousand pounds,” he said slowly. 

She felt herself swaying to and fro. There was a 
sound of rushing water and jangling bells in her ears; 
a white mist seemed to float in front of her eyes. But 
she did not actually faint. Out of the confusion she 
heard a deliberate, cold voice saying — “ It is over 
sixty thousand pounds” — like some one a long way 
off, some one speaking at the end of a long passage ! 
She looked up at him piteously. “ I don’t think I 
heard you,” she said feebly. 

He repeated his words. Mrs. Jack put up her 
hands, as if to ward off a blow, and tottered hack to 
the chair by the table, where she sat with her face 
hidden in her hands, trying to think. 

At last she lifted her head and looked at him. “ Sir 
James,” she said, “it is a huge sum, an enormous 
sum, but — oh! forgive me for what I am going to 
say — but if you put my husband in prison that will 
not give the money back to you. We shall he able to 
pay back some, perhaps all, in time, hut if he is in 
prison he can do nothing.” 

“ It is a question of principle,” he said, in a dull, 
unmoved tone. 

“ If you punish him you punish me ; I never know- 
ingly did you a wrong in my life,” she pleaded. 

“ The innocent always suffer with the guilty in this 
world,” he answered. 

“But my little child — think of her,” Mrs. Jack 
cried. “ If you will not think of me, think of her.” 

“ Did Broughton think of my children?” he asked. 

“You are so rich,” she murmured, not knowing 
what other plea to urge. 


32 


ONLY HUMAN. 


“ What has that to do with it?” he cried. “ Again 
and again I tell you it is not altogether a question of 
money, although I am not so rich that sixty thousand 
pounds is a matter of no moment to me. But it is a 
question of right and wrong, of justice and injustice. 
I am sorry, very sorry to refuse you, but I have lived 
all my life on certain principles; they are as well 
known as my name ; I cannot go against them. It 
would not be right for me to do so because you are a 
pretty woman with a persuasive voice and have a little 
child asleep at home. Think for a moment and you 
will see what an impossible thing it is that you 
ask.” 

She was faint no longer ; a mighty indignation had 
taken possession of her slight frame, and the soft 
dove’s eyes were haughty and full of fire now. “ I 
came here on a very forlorn errand,” she said scorn- 
fully, “ and I was mistaken, I find, in hoping that I 
might obtain mercy from you. But I never thought, 
I never dreamt, that a man of your position would 
stoop to insult a woman as crushed and as wretched 
as I am. I will go ” 

But Sir James stopped her. “Mrs. Broughton,” 
he said frankly, “ I ought not to have said that ; I 
beg your pardon for doing so. I was really thinking 
aloud, and I am ashamed of myself. Believe me, I 
wish that I could bring myself to do what you wish — 
but I cannot. I have told you the reason.” 

He came a step or two nearer to her and held out 
the diamond necklace for her to take. “ You must 
not leave this here,” he said; “I have no right to 
take it and you have no right to give it. I may not 


stop! 


33 


be the only creditor, and — and you must oblige me by 
taking it.” 

She drew herself up and took the necklace, clasp- 
ing it round her throat with an instinctive feeling 
that it would be safest there. But she did not go ; 
she had something more to say, and she meant to say 
it. 

“ Sir James,” she said, in a tone fully as cold and 
deliberate as his, “ I have humbled myself to you as 
I never thought to do to. any living man, and you 
have driven all my pleading and prayers back upon 
myself. I shall never forget it. If you had listened 
to me — if you had granted me the favor I asked, and 
I know it was a great one, you would have made me 
your faithful servant forever. There is no service 
in all the world that I would not cheerfully and will- 
ingly have tried to do for you — and sometimes the 
humblest and most despised people have a great deal 
in their power, both to make and to mar. However, 
you have not listened, and I will go. For what you 
said about my being a pretty woman you have apolo- 
gized, and I cannot therefore speak of it further; but 
it hurts just the same, Sir James. I think ” — very 
sadly — “ that it will hurt as long as I live, that it will 
hurt always.” 

“ Mrs. Broughton, believe me ” he began. 

“ I know,” she said, putting up her hand, that she 
might stop him from saying more, “ I know all that 
you would say, but you have said enough — ay, too 
much. I will go now, back to my desolate home and ’ 
my disgraced child, and you will walk abroad among 
your fellows as a type of an honorable, upright gentle- 
3 


34 


ONLY HUMAN. 


man who lives on his principles. But something tells 
me that it will not always he so — that a day will come 
when you and I will meet again, with our positions 
reversed; something tells me that we shall meet again 
when / shall be on the upper hand, when you will 
ask a favor of me and I shall have the gratification 
of giving an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. 
Then, Sir James Craddock, you need stoop to ask no 
favor of me — it is refused already.” 

“Mrs. Broughton ” he said, hut she stopped 

him. 

“No, I do not wish to hear any more,” she said. 
“ I will bid you good-night, sir, and I thank you for 
the courtesy you have shown to me.” 

She caught her mantle up from the floor and flung 
it about her shoulders ; then, without another word or 
look, she went out of the room. Sir James stood still 
where she had left him, her last warning ringing in 
his ears — “an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. ,v 
What was it that made him shiver a little? Perhaps 
some prophetic instinct. “ I was too hard, poor soul,” 
he murmured, then strode to the door and flung it 
wide open, “Mrs. Broughton — stop!” he cried. 


CHAPTER VL 


TOO late! 

When* Sir James Craddock flung open the door 
and called, “Mrs. Broughton — stop!” he had every 
intention of sacrificing his principles and saying that 
her request was granted. Unfortunately for her, 
however, as the words left his lips the banging of 
the hall-door told him that she had already left the 
house. An instant later he heard the door of the 
carriage shut and the sound of moving wheels upon 
the road. It was too late, too late in more senses 
than one, for the generous impulse had passed, and he 
went back into the library with a sigh of relief. 

“ Just as well, ” he murmured. “ I should have done 
it and been sorry for it all the rest of my life. After 
all, why should one let off a scamp because his wife 
is pretty and young? Of course, it’s hard on her — 
wickedness is always hard on some one. My children 
will have ten thousand apiece less to their fortune, 
for I don’t suppose I shall ever get a penny out of 
Broughton’s estate!” 

He settled down to his journal again and tried to 
dismiss the subject from his mind; but although he 
was reading the details of one of the most interesting 
subjects of the day, he could not get Mrs. Jack’s 
pale, stricken face out of his eyes; it came between 
him and the page — it haunted him ! 

35 


36 


ONLY HUMAN. 


“Yes, it’s hard on her, poor little woman!” his 
thoughts ran, as he threw the paper down and stared 
into the fire, out of which Mrs. Jack’s eyes looked at 
him reproachfully. “ Midge — I saw she had a bracelet 
with ‘Midge’ written on it in diamonds. I suppose 
he calls her ‘Midge,’ poor little soul! And yet it’s 
pretty stiff to see one’s lawyer’s wife decked out in 
diamonds that one has paid for without knowing it. 
Why, she had more diamonds than Sarah ever 
wears.” 

That was true enough. Lady Craddock had brought 
her husband a fortune, and she loved him with a 
mighty ’and an abiding love; but it is doubtful if 
without her dot she would ever have been mistress 
of the big house in Belgrave Square. . 

Sir James had a fixed idea that one of the first 
duties of man was to marry suitably. With him suit- 
ably meant in respect of money, as well as of age and 
position. 

Lady Craddock was not a very comely woman — not 
the kind of woman to whom a husband thinks of giv- 
ing little surprises in the way of diamonds and such- 
like things. To Sir James it would have seemed like 
decorating the front of a cathedral with daisy chains 
to dream of bedecking his wife with ornaments. She 
had given over her fortune into his keeping; she had 
six hundred a year for her dress and her maid’s wages 
and other incidental expenses, and on her birthday 
he invariably gave her a check. . She had diamonds, 
of course, which she wore on state occasions; but 
usually Lady Craddock made rather a dowdy appear- 
ance, and, at all events in Sir James’ mind, the con- 


TOO late! 


37 


trast between her and Jack Broughton’s wife was a 
singularly marked one. 

Still he assured himself more than once, as he sat 
alone in the quiet room, that he would have done a 
very wrong thing if he had yielded to Mrs. Jack 
Broughton’s wishes. It was natural enough that she 
should think as she did, and, of course, it was a much .■ 
more unpleasant thing on his side to hold out firmly 
for what he believed to be right than to have gal- 
lantly and kindly given in and let her go home happy, 
at least as happy as a woman could be who had just 
discovered her husband to be a thief. 

What would become of her, he wondered, the poor 
little woman, who had lived for years in a dream of 
luxury, and then had suddenly awoke to find her life 
fallen about her ears like a house of cards? She was 
still so very young, and Jack Broughton probably 
would get a long term of imprisonment — penal servi- 
tude — and be sent to Portland and made to saw stones 
year in, year out. Really, it was very horrible; he 
did not wonder the little woman was almost beside 
herself with the horror of it. 

His thoughts went drifting off, as a man’s thoughts 
often will, in a special channel when special circum- 
stances have called them forth. Like many another, 
he was accustomed to think of a long term of impris- 
onment very lightly, and it was not until the prospect 
of it was imminent, as the fate of a man whom he had 
known for years and trusted, that the full severity of 
such punishment appealed to him. It is so with all 
of us; and Sir James Craddock shivered, as he sat by 
the fire that evening in May, to think of bright, 


38 


ONLY HUMAN. 


buoyant Jack Broughton cut off for the very best 
years of his life from all that constituted his world. 

Then, all at once, he shook himself together and 
glanced at the clock. “ Pooh! I’m getting sickly — it 
only shows how seductive a pretty woman’s eyes and 
tongue may be. It’s lucky I didn’t marry such a 
girl as this little Midge ; she would have played the 
deuce with me as she has probably played the deuce 
with Broughton. Not that that is any excuse for 
him; he must have known all along that he’d no 
right to be tricking his wife out in diamonds and 
living like a man of wealth and fashion. Sixty 
thousand pounds — and I getting sentimental over the 
scamp that has robbed me of it! I’ll go round to the 
club and get rid of this folly, at all events.” 

He touched the bell and told the servant who an- 
swered it to call a cab. And as he went out through 
the hall he met Lady Craddock and their eldest girl, 
who was a plain copy of herself. 

“ Who is your visitor, James?” she asked. 

“ Oh, she has gone long ago. It was Mrs. Brough- 
ton, who came here in great distress about that 
affair.” 

“Oh! poor thing — I wish I had seen her. Was 
she very distressed? But, of course, she would be — 
poor woman.” 

“Yes; it was painful altogether. I’m glad you 
were not in ; I don’t want you to be mixed up in the 
affair at all, Sarah. By the by, don’t wait up for 
me — I am going out.” 

“With your throat?” she asked, for earlier in the 
evening she had asked him to go to the theatre with 


TOO late! 


39 


her and he had, in declining, told her that he had a 
sore throat. 

“ Yes, I must go,” he answered — and in that house 
the three words were enough ; nobody ever disputed 
the fiat of the master. “ Did you enjoy the play?” 

“Very much,” said Lady Craddock. 

“ Oh! it was lovely, dad,” said Eva rapturously. 

“That’s good. Kiss me, child. Good-night,” was 
his reply. 

Curiously enough, until that night he had never 
really noticed his wife’s want of personal attractive- 
ness. She adored him, and he had always been fond 
enough of her — fond enough, but not extravagantly in 
love, as he had an uncomfortable feeling, a quite new- 
born feeling, that under some circumstances he might 
be — Pshaw ! it was all that little woman with her 
sweet, coaxing voice and her pleading eyes ! And as 
he realized the fact he crammed his hat on to his 
head and went out to the cab. 

“ Dear me, your father seems very much upset by 
all this affair,” said Lady Craddock to her daughter. 
She had not the smallest idea of how large or small a 
sum Sir James was likely to lose, for he had only 
given her the barest details during dinner that even- 
ing. “ Was Mrs. Broughton here long, Curtis?” she 
asked of a servant who came in with a tray. 

“ It was not Mrs. Broughton who came to see Sir 
James this evening, my lady,” the man replied. 

“ Oh, yes; Sir James said so.” 

“ It was a young lady ; Mrs. Broughton is twenty 
years older, I should say, my lady; I know her quite 
well,” he persisted. 


40 


ONLY HUMAN. 


Lady Craddock pondered for a moment, pondered 
because it was such an unusual thing for her husband 
to have visitors late in the evening, and because he 
had distinctly told her that the visitor was Mrs. 
Broughton. 

“ I dare say it was the young Mrs. Broughton,” she 
said to her daughter. “ I never saw her. I did call 
when she was married, and she called here, but we did 
not happen to meet, and I never, called again.” 

“ I dare say it was,” said the girl, with a yawn. 

Meantime, Sir James had gone to his club, but 
when he got there he soon wished that he had not 
come out at all. There were a lot of men in the club, 
and he was hailed by them and dragged into the midst 
of a very friendly group, who were chatting on gen- 
eral subjeots. And presently somebody mentioned 
Jack Broughton’s name. 

“ I heard just now that Jack Broughton had been 
arrested for something or other,” he said carelessly. 
“ Pretty rage he’ll be in when he hears of it.” 

“ Perhaps it was true,” suggested another man. 

“ Pooh ! Jack Broughton has too long a head to get 
himself on the wrong side. By the by, do you know 
Mrs. Jack?” 

“I do,” said a third man. “ Nice little woman; 
straight as a die. ” 

“ Oh, yes, perfectly straight — a very good little 
woman; good all round.” 

Sir James got up with an inward groan. “ Hollo, 
are you off, Sir James?” said the last speaker, looking 
up from the cigarette in his hand. 


TOO late! 


41 


“ Yes ; I only looked in for a minute. Good-night, ” 
he said shortly. 

It seemed as if he was never to get out of the reach 
of that little woman’s reproachful eyes. Never had 
he heard her name mentioned in a club before ; then 
why should it be mentioned to-night of all nights? 
He could not help thinking, as he stood on the broad 
steps of the club-house waiting for a cab, wondering 
what these men would think if they knew the details 
of her visit, and that he had turned a deaf ear to her 
piteous pleadings? Would any one of them have re- 
fused her? He fancied not, and yet — yet he knew 
that he was strictly right, that he was to be praised 
in having overcome the very great temptation by 
which he had been assailed, and for having lived up 
to his principles. 

So Sir James Craddock went home and put his 
body into bed, but his mind — oh! well, the less we 
say about the kind of night that his mind passed the 
better. For once virtue did not bring its own 
reward ! 


CHAPTEE VII. 


ATCHAFALAYA. 

I am sure that one of the saddest phases of this 
life of ours below is when we come so near to some 
very desired object — so near that we could put out 
our hand and touch it, so to speak — and yet in igno- 
rance we pass by, often forever, and all unknowing 
that we have been so near. To me the saddest, 
sweetest, and most pathetic love-story in the world is 
that one which tells how, after years of wandering, 
Evangeline and Gabriel La Jeunesse met on the broad 
bosom of the Atchafalaya, met and passed on either 
side of an islet whose shrubs and trees hid them from 
each other’s sight. Oh! why did not some friendly 
spirit tell* them that they were so near to the haven 
where they would be? Why did not some instinct, 
the same instinct which had prompted her to pay that 
desperate visit to Belgrave Square, tell Jack Brough- 
ton’s wife to pause a moment on the threshold of Sir 
James Craddock’s house? If only she had lingered 
for a few seconds, for ten seconds longer, she would 
have heard him call, “Mrs. Broughton — stop!” and 
I should have had quite a different story to tell you. 

But when she shut the door of the library behind 
her, her only instinct was to get out of the house as 
quickly as possible. She got into the carriage with a 
single word to the coachman — “ Home” — and all the 
42 


ATCHAFALAYA. 


43 


way she sat quite upright, her cold hands tightly 
locked one within the other, her eyes staring in front 
of her, and on her pale cheeks a brilliant spot of vivid 
crimson. 

She reached the Monk’s House and went straight 
upstairs to the room where the child was lying quietly 
sleeping. The light was turned low, the fire had 
sunk down in the grate, there was not a sound save 
the quiet and regular breathing of the nurse and the 
little golden-haired child. 

Mrs. Jack crept to the window and turned up the 
gas so as to enable her to see a little, and the nurse 
started up asking if there was anything the matter. 

“ No — no, nurse — lie down,” she said in an under- 
tone. “ I came in to see the child, that was all.” 

She did not stay long. For a minute or two she 
stood by the little white bed, watching the face of the 
child who was her idol. Then she quietly turned the 
gas down again-and crept out of the room and back to 
her own desolate chamber. 

“Unlace me quickly,” she said; “I am dreadfully 
tired.” 

“Oh, madame,” said Marie eagerly. “I ’ope it 
is not true what they say, that Monsieur has ” 

“That will do,” said Mrs. Jack imperatively. “I 
cannot talk about it. You will hear all that there 
may be to know all in good time. There — now go — 
I can do all the rest for myself.” 

It was the first time during her two years of service 
that Marie had been told to leave her young mistress 
without arranging her hair, her jewels, and putting 
away her gown. She went to bed wondering what it 


44 


ONLY HUMAN. 


could all mean. Has Monsieur murdered somebody, 
or — or — or done something dreadful? If so, what 
could it be? However, puzzle her brains as she would, 
Marie could learn nothing from conjecture, and was 
perforce obliged to go to sleep with her curiosity un- 
satisfied; while her mistress — Midge — having taken 
off her white dress, put on a warm dressing-gown and 
sat down before the fire with her future before her. 
And what a night did that poor child — for she was 
little more — pass ! For hours she sat there trying to 
realize all that had happened during the past few 
hours — how her dear, gallant Jack had been torn away 
from her, and that it was probable she would not see 
him again for many years — ^except in a way such as 
hardly counted with her as seeing him. It was very 
unlikely that he would have the great good luck to 
escape the severest penalty for the offence, which in 
her heart Mrs. Jack believed her husband had com- 
mitted more by carelessness or mistake than of delib- 
erate intention. What then would become of her? 
She would have to leave the Monk’s House, where she* 
had passed her cloudless married life ; she would have 
to go into a little cheap house somewhere or other 
where she had no friends; and then she remembered, 
and shuddered at the remembrance, that, unless by 
some very unexpected piece of good fortune, she 
would not be able to keep even a cheap little roof 
over her head ; that in all probability she would have 
to work for every penny which would be necessary to 
keep her and her child from starvation. 

Now it is a very trite, ay, and a very easy thing to 
say, “If a man will not work, neither shall he eat;” 


ATCHAFALAYA. 


45 


but at the same time when a woman, who has lived 
all her life in dependence on others, whether in a 
dependence of poverty or luxury, suddenly is brought 
face to face with the knowledge that for the future 
she has got to earn her own living, she finds herself 
face to face with the most appalling problem perhaps 
that is possible to her. What is she to do — how is 
she to do it? A woman’s first idea is that she can 
scrub floors as a means to a certain end, but scrubbing 
floors is very hard and very ill-paid work, and very 
difficult work to those who are not used to it. I am 
not sure that a little woman brought up as Mrs. Jack 
had been would be worth even the poor wage that 
the scrubbing of floors brings. 

She was, however, too utterly overwhelmed by the 
depth of her misery to think out any plans for the 
future; she could only sit there m the quiet watches 
of the night, in hours of agony such as come to most 
of us at some time of our lives, her brain in a whirl, 
her heart like a lump of lead, her eyes on fire, and her 
hands like ice. 

At last, however, the fearful strain through which 
she had passed began to tell upon her never very 
strong frame ; her eyelids drooped, she felt sleep com- 
ing upon her, and she threw herself on her bed and 
forgot for a time all her troubles in a deep, deep 
slumber. 

For many hours Midge slept on, as men and wom- 
en do on whom a great calamity has fallen, without 
restlessness, without dreams, simply by the power of 
exhausted nature to make ready for the fray once 
more. And when at last she woke the sun was high, 


46 


ONLY HUMAN. 


little Marjory was waiting to say “ good-morning,” 
and Marie was busy putting away the jewelry which 
her mistress had worn the previous night. 

“Why, what’s the meaning of this?” Mrs. Jack 
cried, as she perbeived that she was wearing a dressing- 
gown, and had ‘only drawn the eider-quilt over her. 
Then what had happened the previous day came back 
to her in a rush of memory, and she sat up in her bed 
fully alive to the horror of her position. 

“ Want to come up on your bed, Midge,” said the 
child imperiously. 

Midge pulled her up as was her wont, and Marie 
went out of the room to fetch her mistress’ tea-tray. 

“ Where is dadda?” inquired Marjory. 

Mrs. Jack felt herself turning sick and faint. “ My 
God!” her sad thoughts ran, “ how am I to bear it?” 
Then aloud she said, “Dadda is away, dearest — he 
has gone away. ” 

“ Will he come back again?” the little one asked. 

Mrs. J ack caught the child to her with a cry. “ Oh, 
my dearest, my sweetheart, don’t say such things,” 
she said bitterly; “don’t — don’t — it hurts mother.” 

“Poor mother — poor Midge,” murmured the child 
caressingly. “ Dadda will come back and Marjie loves 
mother.” 

“ Yes,” with a hard, dry sob, the poor soul cried. 
“ Marjie will always love mother.” 

But she did not weep, this little woman ; there were 
no tears in the soft dove’s eyes; she had no idea of 
laying herself open to pity from her maid, or any of 
the servants for that matter. On the contrary, she 
said to that young person when she appeared with 


ATCHAFALAYA. 


47 


her usual cup of tea — “ Marie, I must get up at once. 
I have a good deal to do. Tell them I shall be down 
for breakfast in half an hour, and send a message to 
the stable to say I may want the brougham any time 
after eleven o’clock.” 

“Yes, madame,” said Marie. 

Mrs. Jack drank her tea greedily, for she hadn’t 
tasted food or drink since she had • left the dinner- 
table the previous evening. “ May I have a bit, 
Midge?” asked Marjie, eying the plate of thin bread- 
and-butter. 

“ Why, yes,” she answered, and took a piece herself 
solely to stop the child asking any questions as to 
why she did not .eat. 

The first mouthful swallowed, the rest became easy, 
and Mrs. Jack got up, dressed and went downstairs, 
where she made enough of a meal to satisfy the child 
and stop the butler from suggesting other dishes, 
which he would have been sure to do if she had eaten 
nothing. She lingered as long over breakfast as she 
could, for she not unnaturally shrank from the very 
unpalatable task before her — that of letting her hus- 
band ’s mother know the terrible calamity that had 
fallen upon them. However, put time on as you will, 
breakfast at last comes to an end ; and after even 
making a pretence of glancing over the morning 
paper, Mrs. Jack had no excuse for any further delay. 

She walked to her mother-in-law’s house — it was 
not far. Mrs. Broughton was sitting in the window 
of the diping-room reading the paper, Flossie was 
busy embroidering a pair of elaborate braces for her 
lover, and the two presented a scene of comfort and 


48 


ONLY HUMAN. 


affluence such as caused poor little Mrs. Jack’s heart 
to sink almost down to her boots. 

“Ah, Midge,” said Mrs. Broughton in her bland, 
indulgent way; “you are early, my dear.” 

“I had reason for being early, Mrs. Broughton,” 

' said Midge tremulously. 

“ Yes? What was it?” said Mrs. Broughton easily. 

“Something is the matter,” cried Flossie, who was 
much quicker of perception than her mother had ever 
been. “ You look as if you had been up all night, 
Midge. What is it? Is Jack ill?” 

Mrs. Jack sat down. She was deathly pale, and she 
was trembling in every limb. 

“ Mrs. Broughton — mother — I don’t know how to 
tell you,” she said piteously. 

“ To tell me what?” said Mrs. Broughton, looking 
up anxiously. 

“ About Jack,” said Midge, scarce above a whisper. 

“What about Jack?” cried Mrs. Broughton, in an 
agony of apprehension. “Tell me quickly, my dear ; 
don’t spin it out, I beg.” 

“He’s in prison,” Jack’s wife wailed, and bent her 
face down so as to hide it from sight. 

For a moment or so there was dead silence. Mrs. 
Broughton turned in her chair and looked at her 
daughter-in-law in speechless astonishment. It was 
Flossie who first found her tongue and asked for more 
information. 

“ Jack — in prison ! But for what?” she said. 

Mrs. Jack looked from one to the other in distress 
and dismay. 

“Oh, how am I to tell you?” she said miserably. 


ATCHAFALAYA. 


49 


“ It seems that we have been spending too much, or 
Jack’s business fell off, or he has been unlucky in spec- 
ulation or something; any way, he borrowed some 
of the securities he had to take care of, and — and 
— they were asked for and Jack could not replace 
them." 

The pitiful story was soon told, and Midge was 
mercifully spared the humiliation of the torrent of 
reproaches which she had expected would be poured 
out upon her. 

“ Then Jack used the securities for raising money, 
speculated with the money and lost it, and when the 
securities were asked for he could not buy them back 
again," said Mrs. Broughton, after hearing all that 
her son’s wife had to tell of the main facts of the 
story. 

“Yes, that was just it," Midge answered despond- 
ently. 

“And Jack never told you he was in difficulties," 
Mrs. Broughton observed. 

“ Not a word, not so much as by a hint. Oh ! Mrs. 
Broughton, do you think if I had known, dreamed, 
suspected that we were spending more than we ought, 
that I would have wished to go on? Jack never told 
me, never. I never had the least idea how business 
was going with him." 

A very hard look flitted over Mrs. Broughton’s 
j face. 

“Just like his father," she said, almost under her 
| breath, then pondered for a moment. “ Midge," she 
said, “ I think I see a way out of it." 

4 


CHAPTER VIII. 


A GLEAM. 

“ I hate an idea,” said Mrs. Broughton hopefully. 

“ I will sell out some of my capital — it is all invested 
in salable stocks — and redeem this bond, or whatever 
it is. Of course, it will reduce my income, but I 
have really only myself to think of now, and it will 
help to make Jack more careful in future ” 

Mrs. Jack uttered a cry. “Oh, dear, dear mother, 
it is all no use,” she wailed, “no use! It was more 
than sixty thousand pounds that Jack could not 
raise — more than sixty thousand pounds!” 

“ Sixty thousand pounds !” repeated the older woman 
in a thick, uncertain voice. “ Good heavens ! what 
could the boy have been thinking of?” 

“ I don’t know — I can’t think,” said Midge miser- 
ably. 

Mrs. Broughton was silent for a long time. 
“Midge,” she said at last, “I don’t blame you — no, 
whatever happens, I don’t blame you. The Brough- 
tons haye never made helpmeets of their wives — they 
have been wives and mothers, nothing more. I was 
just the same, and I know — none better — how it 
stings when the dreadful day comes when you feel 
you ought to have known everything. No, I shall 
never blame you for all the extravagance and luxury 
in which you two have lived at the Monk’s House. 

50 


A GLEAM. 


51 


As for Jack, it’s a hard thing for his mother to say, 
but he has made his bed in secret from us, and he 
must learn to lie on it without our trying to prevent 
it. My poor child, they will take the Monk’s House 
and all your pretty things away from you, hut Jack’s 
wife and Jack’s child shall have a shelter here as long 
as I live.” 

For the first time since the cloud had fallen upon 
her, Mrs. Jack began to weep. She crept to Mrs. 
Broughton’s feet and laid her face upon her knee. 
“I never expected this,” she said humbly and with 
many tears. “I thought that Jack’s mother would 
be sure to take his part and blame me for everything. 
Yes, I did. Listen, mother. Last night, after they 
had taken Jack away, I went to Sir James Craddock’s 
house. I saw him ; I begged, prayed, implored him 
to stay his hand ” 

“You might as well have prayed to a stone,” put 
in Mrs. Broughton dryly. 

“Yes; I found it so,” Midge replied. “Mrs. 
Broughton, I went on my knees to him, and — and — 
it was all of no use.” 

“No. I know James Craddock well — well,” Mrs. 
Broughton said, in a hard, frozen voice. “ I — I might 
have married James Craddock once, hut I chose John 
: Broughton instead. Still, I shouldn’t have thought 
; that James Craddock would have remembered it so 
i long — all this time.” 

Mrs. Jack, poor little Midge, began to understand. 
This, then, was why Sir James had been so steely, so 
adamantine toward her entreaties. There had been 
something of revenge as well as of principle about his 


52 


ONLY HUMAN. 


motive. Well — well — her Jack was doomed, or as 
good as doomed, to fret his heart out in prison for 
many a year to come, and she would have to get 
through the time as best she could, as one of the 
humble ones of the earth, eating the bread of depend- 
ence, or, if she was very lucky, finding some sphere 
of work by which she could make a living for herself 
and her little child. 

“Have you any money, Midge?” Mrs. Broughton 
asked suddenly. 

“ A little in my bank, ” Midge answered. “ Why ?” 

“ I was thinking, that is, wondering, what would 
happen to the Monk’s House. Will they take pos- 
session of it? Who will pay the servants? Will it 
come out of Jack’s estate? How will affairs he 
managed?” 

“The Monk’s House is yours,” said Midge, “and 
I do know that rent comes before all other claims; 
I’ve heard Jack say so.” 

“Would you like to come here at once? You can 
go hack if things turn out better than we expect,” 
Mrs. Broughton suggested. 

“ Oh, I should — yes. I should feel safe with you. 
May I bring Marjie and nurse?” 

“ Of course you may. The sooner they are here 
the better. And Midge, my dear, it is the duty of 
every one to look after themselves. Bring your clothes 
and your jewelry.” 

“ But won’t they know?” Midge breathed in af- 
fright. 

“They can apply for them if they are so hard,” 
said Mrs. Broughton firmly. 


A GLEAM. 


53 


Thus bidden, Mrs. Jack hastened back to the 
Monk’s House, ordered the nurse to pack up Miss 
Marjie’s clothing and toys, and her little smart cot, 
and go off at once to Mrs. Broughton’s house. To 
Marie she gave the same order regarding her own 
wardrobe, and also she put together all her jewelry 
and carried it down in her hand, while she spoke to 
the servants and told them that it would be better 
that they should all leave at once. 

“I have very little money,” she said pathetically; 
“ but, whatever happens, I do not wish you to suffer. 
I will pay you all up to this day out of my own al- 
lowance, but if you insist on a month’s wages extra, 
you must wait and get it from whoever is made the 
trustee.” 

“We will give you no trouble, ma’am,” returned 
the butler, speaking for all. “ If you pay us to the 
day, nothing can be fairer.” 

“ Somebody must remain with the house,” faltered 
Midge, feeling very forlorn and wretched. 

“I am at your bidding, ma’am,” said the butler 
quietly. 

Finally she paid them all, but retained the butler, 
who had been with them eight years, to take care of 
everything and await the development of events. She 
arranged with him that his wife should come into the 
house also. Once more she went through the hand- 
some rooms, taking a silent farewell in case it should 
so happen that she might never see them again. 
Then she dismissed Marie, who came back with the 
news that she had arranged all her things as conven- 
iently as she could in the bedroom which Miss Flossie 


54 


ONLY HUMAN. 


had pointed out as for her, and at dusk she found 
herself once more at Mrs. Broughton’s door, weary 
and worn and faint, feeling homeless and jaded, sick, 
and ready to break down and cry from sheer piteous 
weakness. 

“You are tired out,” exclaimed Mrs. Broughton 
compassionately. “ Poor child, what a day you must 
have had! I” — with a sigh — “ know something of 
leaving my homo too. Flossie shall give you a cup , 
of tea. Quick, Flossie!” 

“Yes, mother; I have told Varley,” said Flossie. 

“And Marjie — did she wonder? Where is she?” j 
Mrs. Jack asked. 

“Now do not worry about Marjie,” the older lady 
cried. “ Marjie is in bed and asleep probably. I 
wont up and said good-night to her half an hour 
ago. She was quite happy. And by the bye — there 
is a letter for you.” 

“ For me?” with a start. 

“ Yes, from that unhappy boy,” said Jack’s mother, ! 
with an inflection in her voice which struck chill to 
Midge’s tremulous heart. 

“Mother, dear,” she said, in a quavering tone, 

“ don’t — that is, you won’t blame Jack too much, will 
you? I — I haven’t got used to it all yet, and — and 
J can’t boar it. Yesterday, at this time, he was my 
ideal — and — and it hurts me. It cuts” — laying her 
hand on her heart — “ like a knife.” 

“ I will say nothing, my dear,” said Jack’s mother, 

“ to make you feel your trouble more than you need,” 
and yet, in the very way she said it, she hurt Midge 
more than might have been believed possible. “ Look 


A GLEAM. 


55 


at your letter, dear child, it may bring you better 
news.” 

But there was no good news in that letter. Jack 
wrote in the tone of one who knew that he deserved 
the worst, and was determined to meet it without 
shrinking, and to Midge the worst was the very fact 
of conviction. 

“I am completely in for this affair” (Jack wrote quite 
cheerfully). “Did you ever know such luck? Times and 
times again I have tided over a bad corner in the same 
way, and have put the securities back, as I should have 
put these back if old Craddock hadn’t so unexpectedly de- 
manded them — the meddlesome old idiot ! For myself, I 
look upon it as a confounded piece of bad luck, a nuisance, 
and all that ; for you, my precious one, I am distressed 
beyond measure. It will mean so much to you, I am 
afraid a complete change of life, for you won’t be able to 
keep up the Monk’s House ; in fact, I dare say they will 
collar all the furniture and things, and, of course, my 
mother won’t be able to go back there. I wish to Heaven 
she could. You can’t think what a horrid feeling it is 
that one cannot go in and out as one has always done, 
that one is fast within four walls and cannot go out, how- 
ever much one wants to. For the rest I am as comfortable 
as need be : afterward I shall find out, I have no doubt, 
how deuced uncomfortable prison life can be and is. There 
will be no difficulty about you coming to see me. You had 
better get Mr. Argent to bring you : it will look better 
than coming by yourself. I have just come in for the 
first examination— remanded for a week ! Oh, how I wish 
they had settled it right away ! Good-by, my darling : I 
must see you soon to settle what can best be done for you 
in the event of the worst happening to me — which is more 
than likely. 

“ Ever, dearest little Midge, your own 

“Jack.” 


56 


ONLY HUMAN. 


This letter was the first thing that began to put 
Midge apart from her husband. Until that moment 
she had really not grasped the truth of the situation ; 
she had not realized that Jack, her husband, the light 
of her eyes, was a dishonest man; that, in point of 
fact, he was practically a thief. By the time she 
had reached the signature she had become a totally 
different woman ; she had come to understand that 
Jack was a disgrace to her and to himself. And she 
resented it bitterly. 

“ Come, dear, a cup of tea will make you feel much 
better,” said her sister-in-law soothingly. “ And then 
you shall go up and take off that dress and put on a 
loose gown and see the child. You’ll feel different 
then.” 

Midge lifted up her haggard face. “ Shall I?” she 
said; and, even to her own ears, her voice sounded 
hard and strange — a voice that she did not know. 

“Yes; come, try to drink it, dear; you know there 
is nothing to be gained by letting yourself get 
ill,” urged Flossie, with the kindest intention in the 
world. 

Midge took the cup from her hand and stirred the 
tea. It was easy enough to drink it, after all ; it was 
only the mere effort of making up her mind to do so 
that was so difficult. And as she sipped it a thought 
came idly into her mind that it was not to Flossie 
that she must look for sympathy, for Flossie did not 
know. All the world was fair and young to Flossie; 
with her a cup of tea was a panacea wherewith to 
heal all troubles. But for actual understanding she 


A GLEAM. 


57 


could only look to her mother-in-law. She knew. She 
had been somewhere very near to her own present 
position ; Midge was certain of it. 

It was wonderful how her mind went back to that 
past wherein the life’s pathways of her husband’s 
mother and Sir James Craddock had met and parted. 
No wonder he had been as stone toward her piteous 
prayers — no wonder he had been deaf to her entreaties. 
And yet, if he had ever loved her (and she was a 
beautiful woman still, who was beautiful enough to 
cause a pang of regret in Sir James’ heart whenever 
they met), he might have stretched a point and given 
her son another chance, instead of which he had 
taken the opportunity of insulting that son’s wife. 
Oh ! but her pale cheek glowed at the memory of the 
cold, contemptuous words — “ It would not be right 
for me to do so because you are a pretty woman 
with a persuasive voice.” Yes, and her slender hand 
clinched and unclinched itself in nervous, helpless 
anger as it all came back to her. 

She had taken off her walking-dress and slipped on 
a loose white robe, what we should call a tea-gown 
now, and as she reached the cheval-glass, which was 
a relic of her mother-in-law’s former luxuries, she 
stopped short and looked hard at herself therein. 
“ He thought me pretty. I almost wish — but no, I 
would not degrade myself like that. I shall find a 
way sooner or later ; it will come to my hand, and 
then — then beware of me, Sir James Craddock, my 
enemy.” 

It was unreasonable, unjust, preposterous, that she 


58 


ONLY HUMAN. 


should in her heart blame Sir James Craddock for all; 
but Midge, proud, pretty and heart-broken, was, be- 
fore all things, a woman, and arrived at her conclusions 
in an essentially feminine fashion, and she hated Sir 
James Craddock with such a hatred as had never had 
its existence within her gentle heart before. 


CHAPTER IX. 


WAITING. 

At the end of a week Jack Broughton was com- 
mitted for trial, and his women folk had to make up 
their minds to wait at least six weeks before his case 
should come on in the higher court in which it would 
be heard. 

Midge had only seen him once, and then in the 
presence of Mr. Argent, the lawyer who -had taken up 
the case. It was a painful interview, though she had 
not reproached him, except by her pale face and sor- 
rowful eyes. 

Jack was very debonair about it, shrugged his 
shoulders, said it was a thousand pities, that he was 
anxious and distressed about his darling, but trusted 
that Providence would look after her. 

In truth, so far as Midge was concerned, Jack 
Broughton was terribly ill at ease. He knew, none 
better, that his sentence would make a terrible differ- 
ence in her life, that the wife of a convict would be 
shunned by all those who had delighted in her society, 
who had hitherto been most eager to secure her bright 
and lovely presence in their houses; he knew that 
those who had until now looked upon her with ad- 
miring envy, alike admiring and envying her youth, 
her beauty, her pretty clothes, her jewels, her fine 
house, her horses and carriages, would assuredly take 
59 


60 


ONLY HUMAN. 


every opportunity of making her feel, the more bit- 
terly the better, the change which must come upon 
her. And when Jack Broughton thought of all these 
things in the silence of his own cell, he could not 
keep himself from choking, or his eyes from filling 
with scalding tears. But in Midge’s presence, out 
of a mistaken feeling of kindness toward her, and 
partly because he had a horror of giving way and 
breaking down before her, he put it aside as lightly 
and as carelessly as he could. 

And Midge was terribly hurt. Indeed, with every 
hour the iron seemed to enter deeper and deeper into 
her soul. She went back to Brooke Gardens that day 
feeling more like a widow than ever, with her tears 
stopped at their fount, as if her heart was frozen 
hard. She had held her cheek to be kissed, certainly, 
but there had been no active affection in the caress, 
and Jack had never mentioned or asked after little 
Marjie, whom he had always professed to adore. Poor 
Midge! 

Then there began a long and weary period of wait- 
ing for the worst. I say long, although it was but 
little more than a month. Yet every day seemed a 
year, every hour a week at least ! For one thing, the 
household in Brooke Gardens was left absolutely 
alone; none of Mrs. Broughton’s friends came near 
them, chiefly because, with this dreadful trouble hang- 
ing over them, they did not like to do so lest they 
should seem to be intruding upon their natural grief. 

I believe it is often so in this, world. One hears of 
a friend having come utterly to grief, and one hardly 
knows what to do. A generous person or a very inti- 


WAITING. 


61 


mate friend will rush off to proffer sympathy or help, 
and very often regret it for the rest of their lives. 
But with those who have only known the unfortunate 
ones a little — what must they do? They do not want 
to be unkind, they do not actually wish to shun those 
in trouble or misfortune, yet they prefer not to in- 
trude; they do not, in a word, know what to do. 

So it was with Mrs. Broughton’s friends, and the 
result was that visitors almost ceased calling at her 
house, which became silent and sad. Midge indeed 
began to feel that she was like Ishmael, with her hand 
against every man and every man’s hand against 
her — always excepting her mother-in-law, who never 
uttered so much as a single word of reproach in her 
presence. 

They had one excitement during the time of wait- 
ing, for Flossie’s lover insisted on being married 
right out of hand. 

“I’m sorry old Jack should have been such a fool,” 
he said frankly, “ and, of course, it’s no use pretend- 
ing that one wouldn’t rather it had never happened; 
but I’m not going to let this come between my happi- 
ness and me. Let us be married at opce, quietly, as 
you like, and if it turns out all right with Jack, Mrs. 
Broughton can give a party or something afterward 
if she likes. If it doesn’t turn out all right, my 
people will be spared the necessity of giving an 
opinion on the matter.” 

And, as a matter of course, he had his way, and one 
fine June morning a quiet little family party met 
together in the parish church of the bride, and Flos- 
sie and Trevor Kingston were made one. 


62 


ONLY HUMAN. 


“And now,” said Mrs. Broughton to Midge, when 
they once more found themselves alone in Brooke 
Gardens, “ now you are my only daughter at home, 
Midge, and we must take care of each other. I hope 
I shall never hear you call me Mrs. Broughton 
again.” 

“Oh, mother,” the girl cried, with tears shining 
in her gray eyes and making a pathetic break in her 
sweet voice, “ you are too kind to me — but — but — 
it sounds as if you have no hope for — for — Jack.” 

The old woman shook her head. “Jack did it, j 
my dear, by his own confession to you, and there is 
very little hope for him. I am a very unhappy old . 
woman, for he is my eldest son — the second that has 
shamed and disgraced me.” 

“Mother, don’t say that!” Midge cried. 

“ It is what I think,” returned Jack’s mother 
simply. 

As the slow and dreary days went on Midge was 
more and more struck by the change in her. She 
had been accustomed to hear her spoken of as being 
of a rather passionate nature, and had indeed on one 
or two occasions seen an instance of it. But this 
calm, this quiet acceptance of the very worst, was ter- 
rible to her — she was frightened by it. 

However, the days slowly dragged themselves away, 
and at last they drew near to the one on which the 
trial would be heard. Midge had another interview 
with her husband, if anything a more painful one to 
her than the first, for Jack was full of forced gayety, 
and would not hear of anything but a good issue to 
the affair. 


WAITING. 


63 


“ It’ll be a regular nuisance, for it will do the busi- 
ness a lot of harm, and we shall have to let the Monk’s 
House anyhow,” he said — “unless, indeed, we can 
persuade my mother to give up housekeeping and 
come to live with us; that would help us out a good 
bit. Talk it over with her, darling, when you go 
back. By the bye, why hasn’t she been to see me? 
Not that any one of them has been except you, my 
sweetheart. What! They don’t care to! No, I dare 
say not. I don’t care to be here, but I’ve got to do 
it. Well — well — it only shows how much you may 
do for your people, who will fawn and flatter and lick 
your boots to serve their own ends, and as soon as a 
bit of suspicion falls on you — heigh, presto ! it’s all 
over, and you haven’t a relation left in the world 
ever to give you what costs them nothing more than 
a cab fare, or at most half an hour of their company. 
Upon my word, it’s sickening.” 

“ Flossie is not back from her honeymoon yet,” 
said Midge, feeling ready to choke. 

“No, no; I’ll exempt Flossie; she did come once. 
Told me I was an idiot, but that she should always 
love me just the same, and that Aggie was a pig, and 
Maudie a beast, and she hated ’em both. Ah, well, 
well ! I have done plenty in my time both for Aggie 
and Maud, and if the worst should happen to me, I 
hope you will always keep that well in your mind. 
By the bye, you’ll'go to the show on Tuesday?” 

“ Jack /” she cried. 

He turned and looked down upon her with a smile 
that was full of agony, only she was too stricken to 
perceive- it. “ Why, what a tender-hearted little Midge 


64 


ONLY HUMAN. 


it is,” he said softly. “But you will go, darling — I 
would rather know, feel that you were there. ” 

“ Yes — I’ll go,” she said faintly. 

And go she did — sitting, by a great favor, in a 
quiet, reserved corner, closely veiled, and sick unto 
death with suspense and dread. 

What a dreadful, terrible day it was. It seemed 
to put ten years on to her age in a couple of hours. 

And Jack never flinched once. “ What a pluck the 
chap has,” said one of his chums to another. “By 
Jove! old Jack mistook his vocation when he went in 
for lawyering; he ought to have been on ’Change, 
doing big things and giving all his time to it. He’d 
have been a millionaire by now instead of being in this 
plight.” 

“Yes. Oh, by Jove! they’re coming back! They 
have not been long in considering their verdict.” 

“ No. Bet you a tenner Jack gets off — that defence 
was deuced clever.” 

“ Done with you,” rejoined the other instantly. 

For a moment or so there was a deathlike silence 
in the court, only to Midge, in her corner, it seemed 
that her heart was beating like a knell ! 


CHAPTER X. 


TEtf YEARS. 

Teit years! The two short words fell like the 
sentence of death on the ears of several of the persons 
present in the court that bright June day. The 
principal actor in the wretched drama neither flinched 
nor stirred visibly, only his blue eyes opened a trifle 
wider than usual, and the color receded a little from 
his face. Midge, in her corner, uttered a stifled 
gasp, and the man who had taken the bet of ten 
pounds with a friend formed his lips into a noiseless 
whistle and muttered: “By Jove! I never thought 
they’d let him off as easily as that!” 

“ By gum ! wot a shame !” said a rough-looking man 
in the body of the court. “ If it ’ad been one of us 
’e’d a-gort twice as much.” 

“ Couldn’t have hoped for better luck,” remarked 
Jack’s counsel to his solicitor. 

“ Oh, no! I thought it would be fifteen at least,” 
the lawyer answered. 

And to Midge it seemed like eternity. She lifted 
her veil for a last look at Jack ere he was hurried 
away, and then sank back upon her seat in a quiet 
faint. Mr. Argent and another gentleman came and 
gently helped her out into one of the waiting-rooms, 
where they bathed her aching brows with water and 
gave her brandy to drink. 

5 65 


66 


ONLY HUMAN. 


“My dear lady," said Mr. Argent kindly, “I told 
you to be prepared for the worst, did I not?” 

“ It is none the less a blow for that, Mr. Argent,” 
she said tremulously. 

“ No — no,” soothingly — “ of course not.” 

“ It is such a long time,” she said brokenly — “ ten 
years ” 

“ He will not have to serve the full ten years,”* the 
lawyer said ; “ he will be set at liberty long before 
that, if he — that is, unless he is very foolish.” 

“ Oh, but it is years any way, and the years are so 
long!” she said hopelessly. 

“ Ah ! you are young yet,” said the lawyer, to whom 
the years seemed to slip by like magic. “ And now, 
Mrs. Broughton, let me see you safe into your car- 
riage.” 

Mrs. Jack’s own well-appointed carriages were all 
gone, but Jack’s mother had not parted with hers, 
feeling that there was no need for her to do so, and 
that day she had insisted on Midge keeping it wait- 
ing while the case was heard. So she was able to ride 
home with her crushing trouble in bodily comfort, 
and how, poor child, she made that journey she never 
afterward quite knew. 

Little Marjie came dancing down the stairs to meet 
her, with a joyous shout of “ My mammie, my velly 
own mammie!” Midge shrank back for an instant 
with a sort of revulsion of feeling against the child’s 
innocent and ignorant gayety, then caught her to her 
heart with a strangled cry: “My baby, my Marjie, 
you love } r cur own mammie, don’t you? Tell me.” 

“ A-course,” replied Marjie, looking wide-eyed and 


TEN YEARS. 


67 


askance at her mother, as children always do in times 
of great tribulation among their elders. “ An’ dear 
daddy, too — Marjie loves ev’ybody. Have you been 
crying, mammie?” 

“Yes, my own. Mammie is in trouble,” raining 
miserable kisses on the child’s golden curls. “Will 
Marjie be very good to poor mammie?” 

“Marjie will be velly good to dear mammie,” the 
child promised ; then asked — dear innocent — “ Is it a 
pain in your tummy, mammie?” 

“Not quite, my dearest, ” with a wretched laugh. 
“I think it’s just here, Marjie,” laying her hand on 
her throat. “ I don’t know — I — I — tell me, where is 
granny, darling?” 

“Granny is velly poorly. Granny told Marjie she 
wanted to be quiet. In the dooring-room,” Marjie 
said. 

“ Then mammie must go to granny. Ah ! here’s 
nurse. Will you take Miss Marjie, nurse?” 

“Yes, ma’am. Come, my blessed innocent,” said 
the woman, catching Marjie to her heart and looking 
over her shoulder with swimming eyes at Midge’s 
haggard face. “ Oh! ma’am, it’s not for the like of 
me to speak, but I must. God help you, ma’am ; it’s 
a hard blow to fall on you, and it’s not one that you 
deserve.” 

“Thank you, nurse,” Midge replied, not trusting 
herself to say more. 

She found Mrs. Broughton sitting in a large arm- 
chair in the drawing-room ; her face looked very white 
and drawn as she turned eagerly toward her. “ Well?” 
she asked, in a tone that spoke volumes of the anxiety 


68 


ONLY HUMAN. 


she had suffered. Midge went and knelt down beside 
her, looking at her with infinite pity and misery 
“Dear mother,” she said, “you and 1 have got to 
take care of each other for the next ten years.” 

Her voice had dropped almost to a whisper ere she 
uttered the two little words, which seemed to have 
been beaten into her brain in characters of fire that 
day; but the mother’s keen ears caught the import 
of the girl’s whitened lips. 

“ Ten years,” she murmured — “ ten years — oh! my 
God!” 

For a long time neither of them spoke or moved ; 
they clung together, these two heart-broken women ; 
then some sudden instinct made Midge look up, and 
she sprang to her feet with a terrible cry of fear, for 
Mrs. Broughton’s face was fixed and white, and, in 
truth, Midge believed that she was dead. 

She tore like one frenzied at the bell, and the parlor- 
maid came running in, followed by the nurse, who 
had left Marjie happy at her tea in the nursery. 

“Oh! nurse — Ward — Mrs. Broughton is ill — she 
is dead, I’m afraid she is dead!” Midge cried dis- 
tractedly. 

“Nay now, ma’am; upset by the news, that’s all,” 
returned the nurse soothingly. “ A little brandy-and- 
water, my girl,” she added in an undertone to the 
maid, who was scared and trembling, “ and not too 
weak.” 

But although they stretched the unconscious woman 
down on the floor, and forced a few drops of the stim- 
ulant down her throat, she did not Recover her senses, 
nor, indeed, give any sign of life. 


TEN YEARS. 


69 


“ Hadn’t one of us better run for the doctor?" sug- 
gested the parlor-maid, who firmly believed that her 
mistress was dead. 

“ Well, I think it would be best. I do not like 
these long faints.” 

Mrs. Broughton had not come round when the 
doctor came bustling in. He was getting toward 
the elderly age, a man of position and large practice, 
and he knew exactly what trouble the Broughtons 
were in ; he had, in fact, attended the whole family 
for twenty years. 

He did not say much. He helped to carry the un- 
conscious woman to her bedroom on the floor above, 
and helped to get her clothes off — no such easy task — 
and gave the nurse full instructions as to what must 
be done during the night, or rather evening. 

“ I’ll come in again between nine and ten,” he said 
when he turned to leave the room. “ Mrs. Jack, will 
you come down with me? I should like five minutes’ 
chat with you.” 

Midge followed him down into the drawing-room. 
“Is she going to die, Dr. Aynesworth?” she asked 
in a very tremulous voice. 

He took her poor little cold and trembling hands 
in his. “My dear,” he said kindly, “we can never 
tell in these cases. If she does, don’t fret about it; 
she will be spared a living death. If she does not — 
and we will do everything to prolong her life — she 
will never be as she was before.” 

“ Why, what is this?” 

“A paralytic stroke,” he replied. “All this trou- 
ble has been too much for her, and she was never a 


70 


ONLY HUMAN. 


very strong woman. You are remaining here perma- 
nently?” 

“ I am going to live with her and ” 

“ And take care of her — and a very great blessing 
for her, poor thing,” he ended kindly. “Well, I 
will come in again the last thing ; meantime, do you 
keep your own strength up as much as possible; at 
best you will need it all, for these cases are often, nay, 
generally, most tedious.” 

So he bustled away again, and Midge, with a sink- 
ing heart, went back again to Mrs. Broughton’s room. 
She was unconscious still, but her hard breathing was 
a relief after the ghastly silence of the first seizure. 
Nurse w~as sitting by the bed and rose as she entered. 
“ Is it a stroke?” she whispered. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Poor lady ; will you be afraid to stay here with 
her, ma’am?” 

“ Oh, no — why?” 

“ Because Miss Marjie ought to be in bed,” anxious- 
ly. “ It’s nearly an hour past her bed-time now.” 

“ Go, then. I am not the least nervous. Why should 
I be?” turning her swimming eyes upon the motion- 
less figure in the bed. 

So nurse went away, and Midge remained in her 
place with the unconscious woman, who had been so 
good a friend to her in the direst hour of her bitter 
need. She would never be the same again, Dr. 
Aynesworth had said — never the same. Did that 
mean that she would be always like this — a living log, 
without sense or motion, without speech or hearing, 
or would she recover somewhat and always drag one 


TEN YEARS. 


71 


foot along the ground, or perhaps be helpless with one 
hand? Midge shuddered at the idea, for Mrs. Brough- 
ton had looked a very young woman for her years, 
which scarcely indeed amounted to more than middle 
life. And now — Oh, it was terrible to think of — 
terrible ! She might go on for twenty years and not 
be an aged woman then, and she was so lonely, so sad, 
it was such a sad end to a life that had begun with 
nothing but bright prosperity and sunshine. And 
then she recalled how kind she had been to her on 
that humiliating day when she had come to tell her 
what Jack, her boy, her eldest-born, had done— how 
that she had not uttered so much as a single word of 
reproach, when she might with justice have said so 
many, and as she stood by the bedside watching her, 
Jack Broughton’s wife vowed a vow which she meant 
to keep for all time, that come what might, through 
fine or foul, she would stay by the stricken woman, 
minister to her comfort, and try to bring some sunshine 
into her clouded life, 


CHAPTER XI. 


BETWEEN" LIFE AND DEATH. 

Within a few hours the news had spread round to 
such of the Broughton family as were in England 
that Mrs. Broughton had had a paralytic seizure, and 
the result was that during the following day Phil ar- 
rived, having got a few hours’ leave from his regiment ; 
and after saying that it was a dreadful business, and 
staring in a frightened way at his mother, who was 
still perfectly unconscious, for some few minutes, he 
went back to the dining-room, and then found out 
that the house was stuffy, and came to the conclusion 
that he would be better out of every one’s way. 

“ What time’s dinner, Midge?” he inquired. 

Now Midge, who had been up all night, had not 
given so much as a thought to the question of dinner. 
She had eaten a bit of toast and part of an egg for 
her breakfast that morning, and would be perfectly 
content with whatever the cook should think fit to 
serve up to her, both for luncheon and dinner. 

“ Oh, well, I’ll manage to dine out,” said Phil, 
catching at the idea with a long breath of relief. 

“Just as you like,” said Midge wearily. 

He had scarcely got well out of sight before a neat 
open carriage drove up to the door, and Maudie — now 
Mrs. Cathcart — was announced. 

“Ah! how d’ye do, Midge?” she remarked, not 
72 


BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH. 


73 


offering her hand, hut dabbing first one cheek and 
then the other against her sister-in-law’s. “ I’m sorry 
to hear poor mother’s so ill. Is it very serious?” 

“ I’m afraid very serious,” said Midge, with swim- 
ming eyes. “ She is not conscious yet.” 

“Dear! dear — poor thing! I’m sure I hope she’s 
not going to die. I’ve got invitations out for two 
dinner-parties, and I’ve had three new evening-dresses 
this month.” 

“Oh, Maudie!” Midge burst out. 

“Bertie thought it was better,” Maudie went on, 
apparently not perceiving what was in her sister-in- 
law’s mind. “Yes; it doesn’t do, you know, to sit 
quietly down and let the world pity you ; it will de- 
spise you next if you don’t take care. As I said to 
Bertie — ‘If Jack chooses to go and do such disgraceful 
things it’s really no fault of ours, and I don’t see 
why we should suffer for them.’ So we sent out in- 
vitations for two dinner-parties last month and two 
next month. If we hadn’t people would have fancied 
we were mixed up in the affair, instead of which 
everybody has been as nice as possible about it, and 
really pitied me and felt for me.” 

“ I don’t think you needed it very much, Maudie,” 
said Midge, who felt as if her heart would burst. 

“No, but I do! Such disgraceful doings! I have 
no patience with him, and if it wasn’t that his sen- 
tence touches me I should say that he richly deserved 
all that he got.” 

“ If you have only come to abuse Jack, I will go,” 
said Midge with dignity. 

“As you please about that, my dear,” returned 


74 


ONLY HUMAN. 


Mrs. Cathcart, with an air of extreme indifference. 

“ I am certainly not going to say any differently to 
what I think because of your touchiness.” 

“Jack was always the best of brothers to you,” 
Jack’s wife burst out passionately. 

“ Oh, fairly well, fairly well!” replied the other in 
a scoffing tone. 

“ Who gave you your trousseau. Who looked after 
your settlements. Who gave you a set of diamond stars 
when you were married?” Midge cried indignantly. 

“ Jack ! Who helped you to get married and gave 
dances and dinners and picnics and theatre-parties 
and what-not? — Jack — all Jack.” 

“ And if Jack knew that he couldn’t afford it, and 
was stealing the money from somebody else, he ought 
to be ashamed of himself,” said Maudie spitefully. 

“ However, my dear, I haven’t come here to quarrel 
with you about the matter; it’s over and done now 
and can never be undone; but I’ve got a big dinner- 
party to-night, and I don’t want to upset myself be- 
forehand — dinner-parties are quite anxiety enough 
without that. Do you think if mother is unconscious 
that it’s any good my harrowing myself by going up 
to look at her?” 

Midge smiled bitterly. “ I don’t think it’s any 
good your ‘harrowing’ yourself by seeing her,” she 
said, emphasizing the word scornfully. “ She is quite 
unconscious — she won’t know you.” 

“Oh, well, then I won’t!” with a sigh of relief. 

“ I believe they look very dreadful when they’re in tf 
that way.” 

“ She doesn’t look dreadful at all,” said Midge hotly. 


BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH. 


75 


“Oh, well, I’m glad of that! Poor mother, I’m 
sure she wouldn’t wish me to put my dinner-party 
off for her, particularly as she’s unconscious and 
would not miss me. And, Midge, if Aggie comes — 
and she’s sure to, and be pretty disagreeable, too, I 
should think — don’t tell her anything about my din- 
ner-party, will you? I asked her to my last, you 
know, hut this is a smart affair with the Lushingtons 
and the Bolingbroke-de Veres; and, really, Aggie’s 
husband is so horridly ‘city’ I didn’t care to ask 
him to meet these people.” 

“Very well,” said Midge. 

“And I’m sure if I’ve said anything about Jack 
to hurt your feelings, I’m very sorry,” Maudie went on. 
“ You know, in thinking of him as my brother, one 
is apt to forget that he is your husband. I don’t 
want to say a word to hurt your feelings, I’m sure. 
Anyway, it’s all very wretched and unhappy, and 
Jack ought to be ashamed of himself. But, of course, 
it’s a very good thing that poor mother has you to 
stay with her and take care of her, for you naturally 
wouldn’t care to be going about just now, and of 
course, if you were not at hand, one of us would have 
to stay here until she was well enough to be up and 
, about. And mother has always been quite fond of 
i you, and now Flossie is married she would be very 
lonely. I believe Aggie had an idea of getting 
i mother to go and live with them, but, as I always told 
mother, Aggie is thinking of the money and hoping 
I to get a bigger share by buttering her up a little. I 
don’t believe in mothers going to live with daughters, 
particularly when they’re well enough off to live in 


76 


ONLY HUMAN. 


a comfortable house and have their own broughams 
and all that. I always told mother so, and I shall 
tell her so again if need be. But Aggie always was 
the most grasping girl in the world. She fancied J ack 
spent twenty pounds more on my wedding than hers, 
and she’s bullied me about it ever since. You see if 
Aggie doesn’t contrive to make herself extra disagree- 
able over mother’s illness; but don’t you mind her, 
Midge — it’s only the money she’s afraid of — that’s 
it! As if her little city man hadn’t got money 
enough for a dozen Aggies without her hungering 
after the few thousands she’ll get from mother.” 

“ Maudie, don’t,” Midge cried, as soon as she could 
put a word in between the voluble flow of Mrs. Cath- 
cart’s remarks. 

Maudie turned and looked at her with wide-open 
eyes (so like Jack’s), expressive of extreme surprise. 
“Why, it’s all true, every word of it!” she exclaimed. 
“ I dare say you don’t believe it, but you’ll find it out 
sooner or later — oh, yes! I tell you, Midge, that 
Aggie is just as mean as the grave, and for saying the 
nastiest, meanest, back-bitingest, horridest things, 
I’ve never known her equal yet, never! You’ll find 
out sooner or later. Well, do you know I think I’ll 
be off before she comes; I know she’ll only upset me 
for my dinner-party, and I don’t want to be upset. 
And you’ll be sure not to mention it. And, Midge, 
if there’s anything you want, you know you’ve only 
to send for me at any hour. And I’m sure I think 
it’s a very good thing that mother has got you to be 
with her. By the bye, you don’t think I need go up 
to see her?” 


BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH. 


77 


“ I am sure you need not,” said Midge, whose dis- 
gust and contempt knew no hounds; hut being weary 
and sick at heart she wished to remain outwardly as 
friendly as possible with her husband’s relatives. 

“No? Well, then, I’ll go. I don’t really see the 
good, and you’ll keep me well posted, won’t you? 
Really, Midge, I dare say you would hardly believe 
how much I do dread seeing people like that.” 

A thought flitted across Midge’s mind that a 
woman’s own mother could scarcely be looked upon 
in the light of “people.” However, she was wise 
enough not to say so, and Maudie betook herself 
away after airily pecking her sad little sister-in-law on 
either cheek once more. 

She went to the window and watched her get into 
her neat and well-appointed carriage, with its pair of 
sleek, satin-coated horses, its steady-looking coachman 
and dapper footman. Mrs. Cathcart looked back, 
and, seeing her there, waved her hand in her airiest 
fashion, and even glanced up as the carriage turned 
away at the closed windows of that upper room where 
the unconscious mother lay. 

Midge felt heart-sick and troubled. Was this an 
example of her future intercourse with Jack’s sisters? 
Was she, during all the rest of her life, to stand 
meekly by and let them say what they would, let 
them abuse Jack, slight her, backbite each other, 
without uttering one word in reply? 

She knew that, in a worldly sense, Maudie Cathcart 
was right in the course that she had taken; that it 
would be useless for her to unnecessarily identify 
herself with Jack and wear sackcloth and ashes on 


78 


ONLY HUMAN. 


account of his sin. Besides, she had her duty to her 
husband to consider, and it would be very hard on 
Herbert Cathcart if he were shut out of his world 
because his wife’s brother had abused his trust. And 
yet that she would be so heartless, so entirely frivo- 
lous, so — so hard and calculating, struck poor little 
Midge with a sense of chill desolation which made 
her heart sink lower than it had ever gone yet. It 
was the first experience of the new life, the first 
conscious taste of the salt savor of another’s bread. 

And if Maudie, who had always been so friendly 
and sisterly toward her, who had always been the 
most like her good-natured, reckless, generous Jack 
in all things, could come and rend her very heart- 
strings like this, what would be her plight when Aggie 
should arrive? Midge had a conviction that where 
Maudie had been carelessly, almost passively unkind, 
Aggie would be intentionally and actively cruel. 

And just then Varley opened the door and said: 

“Mrs. Edward Lawrence, ma’am!” 

“ Oh, is it you, Aggie?” said Midge in a faint 
voice. 


CHAPTER XII. 


AGGIE. 

# 

Mrs. Edward Lawrekce, one time Aggie Brough- 
ton, came into the room with the air of a young 
woman who had the intention of immediately setting 
everything right that had by intention or mischance 
had the misfortune to go wrong hitherto. 

She was a fair young woman, with a pale pink-and- 
white complexion, which would have been lovely had 
it been combined with dark hair and eyelashes. As 
it was, the pale reddish hair and light-colored eye- 
lashes and brows which she possessed gave her an ap- 
pearance of meanness with which her character very 
fairly tallied. 

That afternoon she came into the room with an air 
of suppressed bustle, and looked round. Midge was 
the last thing upon which her eyes fell, and Midge 
felt it. 

“ I came on as quickly as ever I could,” she said, 
without any more formal greeting. “How is 
mother?” 

“ She is very, very ill,” answered Midge sadly. 

“Oh! Really, Midge, under the circumstances,” 
Aggie said sharply, “ I wonder you don’t stay beside 
her. I felt quite surprised to see you here.” 

Midge felt the hot blood mounting up into her 
face. 


79 


80 


ONLY HUMAN. 


“ Maudie has not been gone five minutes,” she said, 
trying to speak in an ordinary friendly tone. 

“ Oh! Maudie has been here — and gone, of course?” 
Mrs. Lawrence remarked. 

“ She had to go,” said Midge, feeling that Maudie 
had been quite sisterly and kind in comparison with 
this. 

“ Had to go — some party or other, I’ve no doubt. 
/ don’t consider it decent lobe gadding about at such 
a time.” 

Midge’s heart sank. Did Aggiemeanto stop alto- 
gether? 

Aggie, however, soon undeceived her, for at that 
moment little Marjie, with Ward, who had taken 
charge of her for the present, came into the room 
dressed for her walk. 

“Mammie, dear,” she began, then stopped short 
and looked at Mrs. Lawrence. “ How do you do?” 
she said, then put her usual question: “What is 
your name? Is it Aunt Aggie?” 

“How do you do, my dear?” Mrs. Lawrence said 
in tones of vinegar. “ What a pity it is, Midge, that 
you have brought the child up to be so forward! 
And so ridiculously dressed, too — all that extravagant 
lace about her. / never dress my children like that — 
to go out with a servant, too. ” 

A fierce thrill of indignation leapt up into Midge’s 
aching heart. In all the years of her married life 
Jack’s people had never questioned her good taste or 
her good sense. Marjie had been petted and spoilt 
and treated as a little prodigy by her grandmother 
and her aunts and uncles, and Midge had always been 


AGGIE. 


81 


lavishly praised as being such a devoted mother, and 
as one who, like the queen, could do no wrong. For 
a moment she felt inclined to blurt out all the pas- 
sionate and bitter words that were seething in her 
heart. Then a remembrance of the kind, unconscious 
woman upstairs came to her, and the fierce anger in 
her soul subsided. 

“ It is rather a smart coat,” she said mildly, “ but 
Marjie has had it some months — it is not new. And 
it is no use saving her things — she grows so fast. 
You forget, Aggie, that when I bought it I had no 
idea that I had any need to be careful — and I had 
only Marjie to dress.” 

“You ought to have known,” Aggie said sharply. 
“ I have no patience with husbands and wives who 
do not tell each other everything. Jack ought to be 
ashamed of himself.” 

“ Hush — hush — the child !” Midge cried in an agony, 
for the great desire of her life was to keep the truth 
about Jack absolutely, now and for all time, from 
Marjie. “My dearest,” she said to Marjie, “say 
good-by to auntie and go for your walk. Ask how 
Winnie is!” 

“ Oh, that was why I did not get here earlier. I 
had to wait to see the doctor. Winnie has got the 
measles,” put in Mrs. Lawrence. 

“Oh, Aggie, how could you, how could you?” 
poor Midge cried, clasping the child to her heart and 
kissing her in an agony of apprehension. “ Come, 
my darling, go at once. Ward, take Miss Marjie for 
her walk at once — at once. Aggie,” she said, coming 
back into the room and shutting the door, “ our mis- 
6 


82 


ONLY HUMAN. 


fortune has very soon altered you in a thousand ways 
toward me, but I shouldn’t have thought that any 
woman would let even her enemy’s child run the 
risk of catching an infectious disease from her. If 
Marjie takes the measles from you I will never, never 
forgive you.” 

“Dear me! that would break my heart!” said Mrs. 
Lawrence with a sneer. “ Pray, do you suppose that I 
am going to he shut out of my own mother’s house, 
when she is ill, too, because you and your child are 
here? Certainly not!” 

“ Common humanity might have prompted you to 
warn me to keep Marjie out of the way,” Midge cried. 

“I didn’t think of it,” returned Mrs. Lawrence 
coolly. “ Besides, is it likely that the child could get 
any harm from my sweet Winnie? The idea! Really, 
Midge, I do think you are carrying matters with much 
too high a hand ; you seem to forget that this is my 
mother’s house.” 

“ And you also,” said Midge wearily. 

“ But I do not forget that poor mother, after all her 
troubles and worries, has simply been harassed into 
this illness,” Mrs. Lawrence continued. “ I do think 
it is hard that just when she was beginning to feel 
comfortable in her circumstances she should have to 
take you and Jack’s child in, and all through Jack’s 
wickedness. It is hard on poor mother. ” 

“ She does not seem to think so,” said Midge, with 
dignity. 

‘‘No, poor thing! She is much too generous and 
tender-hearted to say a word, for fear of hurting your 
feelings,” returned Aggie with a sniff. 


AGGIE. 


83 


Midge smiled ironically. “ Well, you may con- 
gratulate yourself on one thing, Aggie — that you don’t 
take after her in that respect. However, it isn’t any 
good our staying here bickering. I am here by your 
mother’s express wish and invitation, and here I am 
going to stay; so if you talk for a year it won’t alter 
my determination to stop just as long as your mother 
wishes me to do so. You ought to be thankful that 
there is some one able and willing to stay and take 
care of her, who will try to bring some pleasure and 
interest into her lonely life.” 

“Upon my word,” Aggie gasped, “Midge, I don’t 
think you realize whom you are speaking to.” 

“ Don’t I?” repeated Midge, a little scornfully. “ I 
ought to do so. I have shown you a good deal of kind- 
ness in the past, Aggie.” 

“With somebody else’s money,” retorted Aggie 
spitefully. “ Anybody could be generous and kind in 
that sort of way.” 

For a moment Midge, braced up as she was, to en- 
dure all and any insults which Aggie might feel in- 
clined to heap upon her, felt an almost irresistible 
inclination to fall bodily upon her and wipe out the 
cruel, gibing words with blows ; but only for a moment. 
She controlled herself by a great effort and walked 
away to the window. “ You are not worth bandying 
words with, Aggie,” she said quietly. “ It’s generally 
thought a cowardly thing to kick a man who is down, 
but somehow it seems to suit you.” 

“ How dare you ” Aggie began furiously, when 

Midge stopped her by deliberately crossing the room 
to where she stood. And she stood there looking 


84 


ONLY HUMAN. 


straight into Aggie’s pale and vicious eyes with hers 
no longer soft, hut full of cold contempt. 

“ Do you ask me how I dare do ayiythmg?' she said 
scornfully. “ You have learnt very little of me these 
five years,” she went on, in deliberate, even tones. 
“ Once for all let me tell you that I am afraid of noth- 
ing, of nobody, of such a one as you least of all. 
You have declared war with me — we will have war, 
only war. For your mother’s sake I will be civil to 
you in her house — out of it I will not even have an 
acquaintance with you.” 

“ My mother shall know all this,” raved the other, 
beside herself with passion. 

“ If ever you dare to tell her one word I will get 
Dr. Aynesworth to forbid your even seeing her. If 
you go against that, and the effect is fatal, you will 
have to abide by the consequences.” 

“ She shall know now,” Mrs. Lawrence cried, almost 
choking. 

Midge fell back. “ Go, then,” she said, pointing to 
the door. “ One look at her poor, unconscious face, 
will be enough to soften even your malice.” 

The anger died out of Mrs. Lawrence’s mean face. 
“ Is she unconscious?” 

“ Up to the time I came down, less than an hour 
ago, she had never spoken or moved since yesterday 
afternoon,” said Midge. 

Aggie shivered. 

“Oh, well, Midge,” she said, recovering herself a 
little, “ I’ve no wish to be bad friends with you. Why 
should I? I — we both said a little more than we 
meant, and — and — I’ve no wish to be disagreeable. 


AGGIE. 


85 


I’m very much upset just now between Jack’s affair 
and Winnie’s illness and my mother being stricken 
down like this. I didn’t mean to hurt your feel- 
ings, I’m sure,” and she held out her hand, which 
Midge took gravely and in silence. 

“ I should like to see her, poor thing!” Aggie went 
on, in a tone which gave symptoms of tears before 
very long. 

“ Come up, then,” said Midge, and led the way out 
of the room. 

Mrs. Broughton had not moved or even opened her 
eyes, and nurse got up and stood in a respectful atti- 
tude beside the bed. 

“Is that Marjie’s nurse?” Mrs. Lawrence asked, 
not being able to see very clearly in the darkness. 

“Yes,” answered Midge. “We have a regular 
nurse coming in to-night.” 

“Another! Why, surely two of you can manage.” 
Try as she would to be civil, it seemed as if Aggie 
could not help unpleasant remarks slipping off her 
tongue. 

Midge, who was really anxious to be at peace, ex- 
plained. “ You see, for the time, she cannot be left 
for a moment, and the lifting needs experienced 
hands. I am so small I am no use in that way.” 

“ Dr. Aynesworth specially ordered a trained nurse, 
ma’am,” put in nurse quietly. 

“Oh, yes, of course!” Mrs. Lawrence said hur- 
riedly. “Ah!” — with a sigh — “poor mother! she’ll 
never get over this — never. Do you think she’ll live 
through the night, Midge?” 

“Hush sh!” murmured Midge, with an appre- 


86 


ONLY HUMAN. 


hensive glance at the silent figure in the bed. “ She 
may he able to understand us. Besides, Dr. Aynes- 
worth thinks this will pass off, if she is kept very, 
very quiet.” 

Mrs. Lawrence wept a little. “ It’s very dreadful,” 
she said, walking out on to the landing. “ I must go 
back, having Winnie so ill, but you’ll let me know 
if any change occurs, won’t you? As for Maudie, I 
think it’s positively inhuman her going away without 
offering to help or anything. I’ve a good mind to 
drive round there and tell her so.” 

“ I wouldn’t,” said Midge, peaceably. “ Most likely 
you wouldn’t find her at home even.” 

“No, I dare say not. She’s sure to be flaunting 
about somewhere or other. However, I will go to- 
morrow and tell her what I think about it; yes, I 
will.” 

Varley was waiting in the hall that she might let 
her out. The servants at Brooke Gardens always did 
everything in their best style when “ Miss Aggie” 
came home. “Oh, by the bye, Midge,” she said, 
turning back on the very doorstep, “ have you let Phil 
know?” 

“Phil came up this morning,” Midge answered. 

“Really! Where is he, then?” 

“ Oh! he went out about something,” carelessly. 

Aggie sniffed again. “ Well, you tell him, and tell 
Maudie, too, that I am pained and disgusted at their 
want of common feeling. Nothing but my child’s 
illness would have kept me from remaining by our 
poor mother’s side. It’s perfectly dreadful to think 
of her being abandoned and left to strangers,” and 


AGGIE. 


87 


then Aggie got into her brougham and dried her 
eyes ostentatiously. 

“Well, I never!” Varley burst out indignantly. 
“Abandoned and left to strangers, indeed! An’ me 
•an’ cook been with missis over five years, and know 
all her ways to a turn. And you here, too, to look 
after her, her own son’s wife, to say nothing of Miss 
Marjie, bless her dear little ways! Abandoned, 
indeed!” 

“Don’t, Varley!” said Midge, all the fire fading 
out Of her heart and the terrible feeling of loneliness 
creeping back upon her again. “Don’t, Varley!” 

But repressing the faithful Varley did not help 
poor Midge to retain her own demeanor in the ap- 
parent calm in which Mrs. Lawrence had left it. Her 
eyes began to fill with tears, her lips to tremble, and 
she sank down on the nearest chair and hid her face 
upon the hall-table. Varley stood for a second, then 
turned and fled upstairs to her mistress’ room. 

“Nurse,” she said, “run down to Mrs. John, will 
you? She’s crying fit to break her poor ’eart. I’ll 
stop here.” 

“ Why, what is it?” cried nurse, as she hurried off. 

“What is it?” echoed Varley, over the hand-rail. 
“Why, Miss Aggie’s a beast — that’s what it is.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


MRS. BROUGHTON’S ANXIETY. 

The trained nurse arrived that night and took over 
charge of the patient as soon as she had had supper. 
“ You’ll go to bed, ma’am, won’t you?” she said to 
Midge. 

“ I hardly like to do that,” said Midge, anxiously. 
“ Nurse was up late last night, and she only laid down 
for a very short time this morning. I’m sure she 
ought to go to bed to-night.” 

“ Of course she ought, and you too,” said Nurse Fox, 
smiling. “ I don’t want any one to sit up with me. 
I don’t think there’ll be much change, but if there 
is I’ll fetch you at once.” 

“ You will — you promise?” 

“Oh, yes, indeed I will!” Nurse Fox declared. 
“ And there’s another reason why I want you to go to 
bed while you can, for if a restless stage sets in the 
poor lady will be a great deal more trouble than she 
is now.” 

So Midge went to bed and slept as only the young 
and weary ever can sleep. She dreamt of Jack — her 
Jack — that he was just as of old, and that they were 
together in the dear Monk’s House. But that was 
toward morning, and when she woke, remembering 
all, Midge sobbed and wept among her pillows until 
she fell asleep again and slept a dreamless sleep until 


MRS. BROUGHTON’S ANXIETY. 89 

Ward appeared at her bedside with her toast and hot 
tea. 

“ Oh, Ward!” — starting up — “ how is she?” 

“Just the same, ’m,” said Ward sadly. 

There was no need to hurry up. She was still 
tired, both physically and mentally, in spite of her 
long night’s slumber. She laid back among her pil- 
lows, thinking of the sad past and the dreary future. 
True, she had been spared the pain and humiliation 
of seeking a home for herself and the child, hut she 
looked forward with dread to the long fight which 
she knew lay before her. Supposing that every one 
of Jack’s brothers and sisters were to turn against 
her — what should she do then? Aggie had already 
shown her teeth, and although by dint of sheer 
courage Midge had won the day, and Aggie had 
been forced to take back in effect most of what she 
had said, still it had left its mark upon her, and she 
was not sure that she would always be able to “ stand 
up to her” as pluckily as she had done yesterday. 
What if they were all to set upon her at once? Well, 
of course, she could always go out into the world and 
try to get a home of her own together ; she could 
always do that. Indeed, she was not sure whether 
that would not be the easiest and the pleasantest way 
for her to take right from the beginning; she would 
be free from all the gibes and taunts and sneers which 
would inevitably from time to time be flung at herself 
and her little innocent child by one or other of Jack’s 
people. Then a remembrance of her mother-in-law’s 
kind words came back to her, a vision of that pathetic, 
unconscious face, and Midge took heart o’ grace and 


90 


ONLY HUMAN. 


picked up her burden again, determined to carry it 
to the very end, even if it should cost her her life. 

She was not quite dressed when there was a knock 
at the door, and the new nurse came in. 

“There’s a change, ma’am,” she said anxiously. 
“ She has opened her eyes and she seems to want some- 
thing.” 

“ Has she spoken, nurse?” asked Midge, hurrying on 
a wrapper. 

“No; she can’t do that. But her eyes are asking 
for something, and I don’t know what it is. I dare 
say you’ll be able to make out what it is.” 

In a couple of minutes more Midge was ready and 
went at once to Mrs. Broughton’s bedside. 

“ Dear mother, are you better?” she said. 

Mrs. Broughton neither spoke nor moved, only 
looked up at her with those imploring eyes which 
brought Midge’s heart into her throat. 

“ There is something that you want, and you can’t 
tell me,” she said gently. 

The eyes seemed to look acquiescence, but still she 
was silent; she could not utter a word. Midge tried 
to think of a way by which she could impart her 
wishes. 

“Is it about Phil or Flossie?” she asked, taking the 
cold and nerveless hand in hers. “ Can you not press 
my hand?” 

But no ; she could not even do that, and tears slowly 
gathered in those speaking yet speechless eyes. Midge 
was nearly beside herself.. 

“ Dear, can you not shut your eyes when you want 
to say ‘yes’?” she asked at last. 


MRS. BROUGHTON’S ANXIETY. 


91 


Mrs. Broughton shut her eyes instantly. Midge’s 
hopes rose higher. Here at least was a way by which 
some communication could he made, even if it was 
by the slow and tedious way of guessing. 

“ Is it about Phil or Flossie? Phil is here, you 
know. Would you like to see him?” 

The eyes said yes. 

“ But that is not quite all that you wish, is it? Do 
you like the new nurse? Yes? Ah! I’m glad of that, 
for we mean to take great care of you and soon have 
you about again. Is it about — about — Jack?” 

But no ; it was not Jack of whom Mrs. Broughton 
evidently wished to speak. Midge went on guessing. 

“ Maudie was here yesterday, very distressed and 
anxious about you ; she is coming again to-day. And 
Aggie came, too. Is it about Aggie?” 

Oh, the distress of those imploring eyes ! “Do you 
want me to send for Aggie, dear? Say yes, if you 
do.” 

But Mrs. Broughton evidently did not want Aggie ; 
the eyes remained wide open, staring piteously at 
Midge. 

“It’s something to do with Aggie, I’m sure,” 
Midge said under her breath to Nurse Fox, “ and I 
cannot tell what it is. You knew,” she continued, to 
the sick woman, “ that Aggie came yesterday to see 
you? Yes! Is it that you don’t want her to come 
to nurse you? Yes! Would you rather I stayed — 

andMarjie? Yes — yes — yes ” The eyes were quite 

eager now, and Midge understood. “ Dear mother, 
I think I know. You fancy they may not always be 
very kind to me, that they may wish to interfere, 


92 


ONLY HUMAN. 


and that I may think it better to go away and take 
Marjie. Yes — I know. But I will not go; I will 
not leave you whatever happens, whatever is or may 
be said. I will never leave you until you send me 
away.” 

“ There, that satisfies her. Now let her lie quiet 
and sleep if she can,” put in the nurse, with authority. 
“ She will be much easier in her mind now, and this 
improvement will most likely steadily increase. Do 
you go down and have breakfast, ma’am. Mrs. 
Broughton wishes you to take care of yourself, I’m 
sure.” 

She spoke in quiet, measured tones, which Mrs. 
Broughton evidently understood and approved, for she 
closed her eyes and seemed inclined to sleep. With 
a movement of her head Midge beckoned her to the 
door. 

“Do you think they ever understand when they 
seem unconscious?” she whispered. 

“ Yes — sometimes.” 

“ Then she heard what Mrs. Lawrence said yester- 
day.” 

“Very likely. You can’t be too careful what you 
say in a sick-room at any time.” 

So'Midge went downstairs to have breakfast with 
Marjie, and Nurse Fox remained in the sick-room 
with her patient, waiting until the visit of the doctor 
should release her. She was quietly moving about 
making everything tidy when a little noise from the 
bed made her turn her head. Mrs. Broughton was 
trying to speak, and the nurse bent over her to hear 
what she wished to say. 


MRS. BROUGHTON’S ANXIETY. 93 

At last, after many attempts, Mrs. Broughton 
made a final effort and uttered a few more or less in- 
telligible words, of which she was only able to distin- 
guish — “ Gent — will — Midge — safe.” 

“ Don’t distress yourself, my dear,” she said kindly ; 
“ keep quiet, and I’ll tell the doctor when he comes. 
The quieter you keep to-day the easier you’ll he able 
to speak to-morrow. It’s about your will — yes. I’ll 
tell the doctor. He’ll help you best of all.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 


PIN-PRICKS. 

As soon as Dr. Aynesworth came Nurse Fox told 
him that Mrs. Broughton had something on her mind 
about a will, and that she had promised to speak 
to him about it. Dr. Aynesworth was, however, 
thoroughly puzzled. He understood that she wished 
to speak about some will, hut the continual reitera- 
tion of the word “ Gent” completely baffled him; he 
imagined that she was speaking or trying to speak, 
poor thing, of some gentleman’s will, presumably her 
husband’s. 

It was, at last, Midge who came to the rescue. 
“ Do you mean Mr. Argent, dear?” she asked. “ Shall 
I send for him?” 

Eventually, Mr. Argent was sent for, and had a 
short interview with the poor lady, concerning which 
he expressed himself quite satisfied as to her intentions. 

Midge was not present purposely, indeed absenting 
herself that she might not seem to be inquisitive 
as to the disposal of her mother-in-law’s property. 
Nurse Fox, who was present, said not one word to 
anybody, and from that time the days passed without 
any further excitement. The patient was indeed 
kept as quiet as possible, the doctor’s orders upon 
that point being especially stringent. 

“ Her only chance is in extreme quiet, Mrs. Jack,” 
94 


PIN-PRICKS. 


95 


he said to Midge. “And I’m afraid you may have 
rather your work cut out to secure it. There’s Aggie 
now — I never can remember her name — yes, Mrs. 
Lawrence — she was always an obstreperous young lady 
from her cradle up. Well, I didn’t know her actually 
in her cradle, but I think she must have been a rusty 
sort of a customer even then. Mrs. Lawrence has 
always had a disquieting effect on her mother — oh, 
quite unintentionally, I dare say, but the result is 
always the same. Don’t let her persuade you into 
letting her sit up a night or anything of that kind — 
don’t leave her alone in the room. Quiet is Mrs. 
Broughton’s only chance.” 

“ But supposing that Aggie insists — she’s the eldest, 
you know?” Midge suggested. 

“ Befer her to me ; say you have my especial orders 
on the subject. I will soon settle the question, if she 
mentions it to me.” 

However, for a week Mrs. Lawrence contented 
herself with sending down daily to inquire after her 
mother’s progress. Winnie, she wrote, had taken a 
bad turn and could not be left, and she would trust 
in Midge to keep her well posted in the last news of 
her patient. 

Mrs. Cathcart only appeared on the scene twice 
during this week. “ Of course Aggie came?” she said 
to Midge, the day after the dinner-party. 

“ She came yesterday.” 

“ I wonder she did not stop for good.” 

“ Little Winnie has the measles,” said Midge. 

“Oh! I hope you didn’t let Marjie go near her?” 

“ Well, I should not have done, but Aggie did not 


96 


ONLY HUMAN. 


tell me about Winnie till Marjie had been in the room 
some little time.” 

“ Never told you the child had the measles?” 

“ No ; not for some time. ” 

Mrs. Cathcart drew a long breath. “Well,” she 
burst out at last, “ Aggie is a beast. I suppose she 
thought as it was poor Jack’s child it didn’t matter 
whether she got the measles or not.” 

Poor Midge began to cry at once. “ I didn’t mean 
to say anything,” she sobbed. “ I never did — but — 
but — I did feel it — I did think it hard.” 

“ Of course you did,” said Maudie warmly. “ What- 
ever Jack was idiot enough to do, it wasn’t your 
fault, and if it had been both your faults it ought 
not to be visited on the poor child. But there — it’s 
just like Aggie. I suppose Marjie’s prettier than her 
horrid little thing — that’s the truth of the matter. 
Well, I was going to say that you’d better send Marjie 
to me; but if there’s a chance of her getting measles, 
I think she had better stay where she is, on all 
accounts.” 

“ Oh, yes! I couldn’t let her go anywhere without 
nurse, and she, of course, couldn’t be spared to leave 
just now.” 

“ No, no. By the bye” — carelessly — “ are you going 
to keep nurse?” 

Midge turned a startled look upon her sister-in-law. 
“ To keep nurse? I don’t understand you, Maudie. 
What do you mean?” 

“Well, you pay her very high wages, don’t 
you?” 

“ Twenty-five pounds a year, that’s all. And she 


PIN-PRICKS. 97 

has no nnrsery-maid here. Your mother wishes me 
to keep her — she expressly said so." 

“ Oh, well, of course, it’s really no business of 
mine, but twenty-five pounds a year seems a good 
lot for one little girl, and, of course, when your ’re 
living on — on ” 

“ On charity,” put in Midge. 

“I wasn’t going to say exactly that — but in some 
one else’s house, of course things are a little different, 
aren’t they? I don’t say as Aggie would — that you 
ought to do without a nurse at all, and look after 
Marjie entirely yourself ; but I do think you would he 
able to manage with a cheaper nurse — one at twelve 
or fourteen pounds a year.” 

Midge shuddered ! She had fancied that when her 
husband’s mother had told her she and Marjie were 
to make their home with her, and had put it that she 
was really overjoyed to have them, that Midge was to 
be her daughter and companion, and Marjie the de- 
light of her declining days, she had fancied that there 
could he nothing more to say about the matter. It had 
not occurred to her that Mrs. Broughton’s children 
could interfere about the way in which she chose to 
spend her income, or as to what kind of servants she 
preferred to have in her house. 

Up to the time of her seizure Mrs. Broughton had 
been noted for being complete mistress of herself and 
her house ; and Midge was not a little surprised to find 
this disposition all round to have a say in her affairs. 

“ Mrs. Broughton wished nurse to remain for many 
reasons,” she said quietly. “ I did suggest a less ex- 
pensive one, but your mother would not hear of it. 

7 


98 


ONLY HUMAN. 


If you think differently you had better wait until she 
is well enough to discuss the matter, and then tell her 
just what you think. For the present, however, nurse 
will remain where she is.” 

“ Oh ! I don’t want to interfere,” said Maudie, rather 
confusedly; “it’s really no business of mine. Of 
course I know mother much better than you do. She 
has always been accustomed to a large income, and she 
is naturally of a lavish disposition, and very generous ; 
and she would feel a delicacy in suggesting a less ex- 
pensive servant. But, of course, it would be rather 
hard on her if she felt that she had to go without some 
things herself on that account, wouldn’t it?” 

“Yes; but I don’t think she will do that,” said 
Midge coldly. 

Now when Mrs. Lawrence again made her appear- 
ance in Brooke Gardens she was very full of the ill- 
ness which her little girl Winnie had but just got 
through. Without doubt the child had had the com- 
plaint very sharply ; yet she was dreadfully offended 
when Midge hustled little Marjie out of the room and 
sent her to nurse with instructions that she was not 
to come down again until she — Mrs. Jack — gave her 
leave to do so. 

“ Such ridiculous nonsense!” Mrs. Lawrence fumed 
indignantly. “ One would think my poor darling scat- 
tered poison everywhere. Really, I call it most un- 
feeling of you, Mary.” 

She had so long been called “ Midge” by every one of 
her husband’s people that the use of her proper name 
came upon her with a sort of shock. It braced her up 
to meet Aggie rather more than half-way, however. 


PIN-PRICKS. 


99 


“Aggie,” she said coldly, “will it do your child ■ 
a vital harm if I keep my child out of your 
way?” 

“ N — o !” stammered Aggie, rather taken aback. 

“ Then don’t you understand that Marjie might 
possibly get measles from you?” 

“ It’s not at all likely,” Aggie persisted. 

“ Do you want her to have measles?” Midge in- 
quired, looking straight into the other’s pale eyes. 

“ Upon my word, Midge, you carry matters with 
too high a hand altogether,” Aggie cried; “ I posi- 
tively don’t know how you dare insinuate such ” 

“ Do you want her to have the measles?” Midge 
insisted. 

“Of course I do not,” replied Aggie, failing in 
strength, as cowards invariably do when fairly driven 
into a corner. 

“ Then say no more about it,” said Midge curtly. 
“It seems to me,” looking at her contemptuously, 

“ that you come here only intent on quarrelling ; so 
far from having respect to the sad illness in the house, 
you just take the chance of saying what you would not 
dare to say if your mother were present.” 

Aggie sat herself down and wept copiously. “ It 
is hard,” she sobbed; “ I have torn myself away from 
my poor, suffering darling, and come here only to be 
treated as if I was a leper and would scatter death 
and destruction wherever I went.” 

Midge, in spite of her bursting heart, could not 
help laughing. “ Aggie,” she said, all her anger fad- 
ing away, “how can you be so silly? What is the 
good of your worrying and exciting yourself like 


100 


ONLY HUMAN. 


this over nothing ? If you were fretting over your 
mother and worrying about little Winnie I would 
sympathize with you with all my heart. But as it is — 
all about nothing — it’s so foolish. Come, let me give 
you a cup of tea, and then go up and see your 
mother ; it will do your heart good to see how much 
better she is.” 

Thus fairly put in the wrong, Mrs. Lawrence rather 
tearfully consented to he coaxed into comparative 
good humor again. And presently she went up to 
see her mother, who was able to smile and speak a 
few words, though not very distinctly as yet. 

“Oh, but Mrs. Broughton is wonderfully better !” 
said the nurse. “ Dr. Aynesworth is very much 
pleased with her progress, very much,” and then she 
smiled at her patient and smoothed down the bed- 
clothes in the peculiarly proprietorial way that nurses 
have. And then after Mrs. Lawrence had talked for 
a few minutes she gave her a very broad hint that 
Mrs. Broughton had to be kept as quiet as possible, 
that talking fatigued her, and that every time she 
was overtired her ultimate recovery would be re- 
tarded. 

“ How long are you going to keep that -woman?” 
Aggie asked of Midge as they went downstairs to- 
gether. 

“Until Dr. Aynesworth thinks she is no longer 
necessary,” Midge replied. 

“ I should have thought your old nurse would have 
been able to do quite well; but perhaps she has 
already gone.” 

“Gone? No! What do you mean, Aggie?” 


PIN-PRICKS. 


101 


“Why, Maudie is going to have her; she told me 
so a fortnight ago." 

“ Mandie — to have nurse?” 

“ She told me so.” 

Midge began to see light. In former and happier 
days her two married sisters-in-law, who both were 
in the way of having trouble with their servants, had 
been used to envying Midge her “ luck” in having 
secured such a woman as nurse for the care of 
Marjie; evidently then Maudie, who hated trouble 
with her children, was hoping to induce Midge or 
perhaps Mrs. Broughton to get rid of nurse, in order 
that she might secure her for her own children. 

“I don’t at all think Maudie wise,” Aggie went 
on. “ I don’t believe in taking servants from mem- 
bers of one’s own family. I once took a cook from 
Edward’s eldest sister, and she told me so many 
things that Jane had said about me that I never felt 
the same to her afterward.” 

A remark rose to Midge’s lips that perhaps on the 
whole it was as well that she did have her sister-in- 
law’s cook, as nobody could wish to remain on very 
friendly terms with the lady in question ! However, 
although it was but a few weeks since a change had 
come about in her life, she was already beginning to 
learn the advisability of keeping silence in most 
emergencies. She bit the remark off the end of her 
tongue, therefore, and said quietly: “Oh, I dare say 
Maudie would like nurse, but she is not going to 
leave me at present, and I doubt if she would like to 
take a place where there were three children; she is 
not so young as she was, you know.” 


102 


ONLY HUMAN. 


“ Oh, I shouldn’t care about her at all!” said Aggie 
sharply. “ I never think such a woman is worth her 
wages. In fact, I call having a nurse of that age 
neither more nor less than a downright extrava- 
gance. ” 


CHAPTER XV. 


MISCHIE F-M AKIK6. 

For a few weeks the household at Brooke Gardens 
went on without any very great change. Mrs. 
Broughton’s health slowly but surely improved, and 
at last she was able to get up and sit in a chair near 
the window, so that she could see what was going on 
in the street below. 

Midge was very anxious to get her moved to the 
country or to the seaside ; but the doctor said not 
yet — that she must get stronger and more assured in 
her health before they attempted more than a slight 
change. 

So the first change they made was to fit up the 
back drawing-room as a bedroom, so that she could 
be easily wheeled in and out as occasion arose, and 
then they carried her downstairs. 

They were all quite excited over the move; it was 
the last pleasant bit of excitement that Midge had 
for many a day! Mrs. Broughton still could not 
walk, and the fingers of her left hand were stiff and 
helpless ; but she could use it a little, and her right 
hand was scarcely affected at all. She looked a little 
older in the face, and her pretty hair was streaked 
with white; her speech was not quite clear, and in 
her manner she was pathetically helpless. Still her 
mind was bright and clear. She loved to watch the 
103 


104 


ONLY HUMAN. 


child, and to have Midge sitting with her; bnt others 
coming in amused her but for a very short time. She 
was soon tired, and she showed her weariness imme- 
diately, apparently without considering either the 
feelings or the presence of any visitors. 

Her daughters soon found that they could not vent- 
ure to interfere in the very smallest degree with her 
plans and management. Like all paralyzed people, 
she was very particular about her own supremacy, 
and disliked being interfered with in any way. Once 
Mrs. Lawrence ventured to suggest that it was a 
wanton extravagance having a trained nurse in the 
house while they kept such an experienced woman 
for little Marjie, and hinted that it would be as well 
for her to get rid of one or the other of them. But 
with Mrs. Broughton, Aggie never ventured to in- 
terfere again, for her doubtless well-meant advice 
brought down such a storm of excitement and re- 
proaches upon her that she was glad to turn and fly 
out of the sound of her mother’s halting, yet very 
eloquent, tongue. 

And Mrs. Broughton was very ill after this, for 
several days being in danger cf another seizure, and 
Aggie had also to endure the most bitter upbraidings 
from Flossie, who was excessively fond of her mother, 
besides the significant hints of Maudie and the more 
to be feared silence of Midge. But it was wonderful 
what a wholesome effect the affair had upon Aggie’s 
unruly tongue, and how very quiet and mild she was 
in her mother’s presence afterward. 

She revenged herself, however, by pouring out 
upon Midge all manner of the most unjust sneers 


MISCHIEF-MAKING. 


105 


anent unscrupulous young women who do not hesi- 
tate to take advantage of a sick woman’s afflicted 
mind in order to turn her against her own chil- 
dren. 

“ I never attempted to turn your mother’s mind 
against you,” said Midge wearily, one day when Aggie 
had been talking at her for some time. 

“ If the cap does not fit there can be no occasion 
to put it on,” remarked Aggie triumphantly. “ You 
are too quick by half, my dear; I purposely men- 
tioned no names.” 

“/ thought you meant Midge,” said Flossie, look- 
ing up from a letter she was writing. 

“She did mean me,” said Midge quietly. “But 
you are worrying yourself needlessly, Aggie; I was 
far too late in the field to alter your mother’s opinion 
in any way concerning you. She knew you too well 
in her days of health to feel different now that you 
grudge her spending her money to the best advan- 
tage for her own comfort.” 

“For your comfort, you mean!” exclaimed Aggie 
furiously. “ Poor mother could have comfort and to 
spare, but you must have the brougham kept up for 
you and an expensive nurse for your child — and for 
what? What good is a carriage to you? Nobody 
will speak to you when you are out.” 

“Nobody will speak to me!” echoed Midge, for- 
getting her good resolution not to be roused by 
anything that her sister-in-law might choose to 
say. 

“ Why, you know that as well as I do,” retorted 
Aggie, who was fast losing all command over herself, 


106 


ONLY HUMAN. 


and was therefore about as incoherent and unreason- 
able as could well be. 

“ I don’t- know what you mean,” said Midge, still 
all at sea. 

“ Didn’t you meet Mrs. Charles Kilmaney one day 
last week?” Aggie demanded. 

“ Well, what of that?” 

“ Only that, as she told me afterward, it was very 
unpleasant and awkward meeting you. After having 
been quite friends, she scarcely knew what to do when 
she met you ; she didn’t like not to know you, and she 
did not like to be seen talking to you ; and, as she 
said, you seemed so entirely oblivious of any reason 
why there would now be a natural difference, and of 
course she didn’t like to hurt your feelings — and — 

and ” Aggie was getting terribly confused under 

the steady gaze of her sister-in-law’s cold gray eyes. 
“And really, Midge, I don’t want to be unkind, but 
don’t you see how much more pleasant it would be 
for all of us if you were to go away and live some- 
where where you are unknown? I’m sure mother 
would make you an allowance, and we would all of us 
help a little ” 

“ Stop /” cried Midge, starting to her feet and 
struggling hard to regain her composure. “ Stop ! 
Did Mrs. Kilmaney tell you that?” 

“ Of course she did,” nervously. 

“Will you swear it — that she uttered just those 
words?” 

“ No, of course I won’t swear to every word — is it 
likely? But she said that just as nearly as I can 
remember. ” 


MISCHIEF-MAKING. 


107 


Midge turned away. I think that in all her trou- 
bles nothing (after the one great fact of Jack’s sin) 
had stung her to the very quick as this had done. 
For Mrs. Kilmaney had been her dearest friend — 
her confidante — her one intimate. At the time of 
Jack’s misfortune (poor little woman, she always 
thought of it as a misfortune or an accident) Helen 
Kilmaney had been very ill with typhoid fever, and 
the facts had never been told to her until after she 
had been several weeks in Scotland, whither her hus- 
band had taken her as soon as she could safely vent- 
ure on the journey. As soon as she knew of Midge’s 
trouble she had written her a long, tear-blotted letter 
(from Scotland), full of sympathy and kindness, tell- 
ing her that nothing, nothing would ever make any 
difference to her, asking her to take Marjie up to 
Ayrshire and pay her a long visit — in short, a letter 
that poor Midge had carried about with her for days, 
that she had wept over and kissed; a letter that had 
comforted her like a friend. 

Like all persons in trouble, she jumped to the worst 
conclusion at once. She never doubted the truth of 
Aggie’s statement, for she had seen Mrs. Kilmaney 
for a few minutes in a shop in Bond Street during 
the previous week; but she was in a great hurry, and 
she had noticed nothing in the least unusual about 
her manner. 

“ I am going now, in half an hour, to Charlotte’s 
for a few days,” she had said, speaking of a married 
sister living twenty miles or so out of London. “ I 
only got to town at 2 o’clock. I was so done up that 
Charley made me sleep at York. I’m not really strong 


108 


ONLY HUMAN. 


enough for such a long journey, but Charlotte would 
have me come ; she’s got Prince Kammermarken stay- 
ing with her. As if I cared. Well, darling, I will 
come and see you on my way back. Can’t you 
arrange to go back with me? You look as if you 
wanted a change badly! You can’t! Well, can you 
come later? Think it over, and we’ll talk about it 
when I come, eh?” 

And that had been all false, all sham ; the invita- 
tion so kindly given had been only a form, a putting 
off of the real change in her heart, which she was 
too kindly to show quite plainly, as plainly as it 
existed in reality. Oh, how it hurt her that her 
friend, who had looked into her eyes with such sym- 
pathy, who had held her hand fast during the few 
minutes that they had stood talking, could have 
spoken of her like that to Aggie — the one person in 
all the world who seemed most ardently to wish to 
make her feel to the very full the shame and bitter- 
ness of her position as a convict’s wife ! 

“Xnd you think it would be better for every- 
body if I were to go away?” she said to Mrs. Law- 
rence. 

“Yes, I do,” in an eagerly friendly tone. 

“ And that you and the others would club together 
to help me to live?” 

“ Oh, yes!” 

“Speak for yourself, Aggie,” put in Flossie, who 
was almost too disgusted to listen. “ I think Midge 
is best where she is.” 

“ My husband spent five hundred pounds over your 
wedding trousseau and presents,” said Midge in a 


MISCHIEF-MAKING. 


109 


hard voice. “ I wonder how much of it you will 
throw back at me?” 

“ I — I — would give twenty or twenty-five pounds a 
year,” said Aggie, in a very small voice. 

“You will? Then listen!” said Midge — “listen!” 


CHAPTER XVI. 


MRS. CHARLES KILMANEY. 

“ Omce for all,” said Midge, looking her sister-in- 
law straight in the eyes, “ and then let this question 
he at an end forever. Your paltry offer of money 
I absolutely refuse. I wonder that you are not 
ashamed to make it, after all that Jack has done for 


“Out of somebody else’s pocket,” put in Aggie 
spitefully. 

“ If you feel it so, let your husband pay the amount 
into the hands of the trustees,” Midge flashed out. 
“But you will not do that — oh, no! For myself, I 
can get on very well without your money, and as for 
your suggestion that I shall go away and hide myself, 
I tell you once and for all that I will never, never 
do it. I have done nothing to be ashamed of, and 
Jack’s shortcomings touch me no more nearly than 
they do you — not so nearly; you are related by birth. 
If there is a stain cast upon all Jack’s family, you 
suffer by it equally with me! As to. my living here, 
I have promised your mother that I will do so, and 
I mean to keep my word. You will make my life as 
hard as you can — of that I have no doubt ; you leave 
me none — but if you fight from now until the end of 
your mother’s life I will never give in to you. Up 
to now I have been yielding and complacent enough, 
110 


MRS. CHARLES KILMANEY. 


Ill 


but you don’t know of what stuff I am made. I 
would die rather than give in to such a one as you 
are. Do you understand me? Here I am and here 
I mean to remain, and while I remain I mean to 
carry out your mother’s wishes in every respect, in 
every detail! Have I made myself plain and clear?” 

“Quite clear; bravo!” put in Flossie, laughing. 

“I will tell my mother,” gasped Aggie, who was , 
livid with rage; “ I will not be insulted in my own 
mother’s house — I ” 

“ Aggie, if you upset mother again,” put in Flossie 
in a tone of quiet determination, “ I’ll tell the doctor 
and send for Mr. Argent, and you shall be shut out 
of the house altogether. Midge is perfectly right in 
everything she says, and I shall back her up through 
thick and thin ; so I warn you. As for you, if you 
loved our mother or had any sense of gratitude or 
even of common generosity, you couldn’t goad and 
bully any one into madness as you are trying to goad 
and bully Midge. Anyway, Midge is here, and here 
she is going to stop, so there is no need for you to say 
anything about it one way or the other. I think the 
best thing you can do, Aggie, is to go home and stop 
there. Don’t come for a month or so, and then per- 
haps you’ll have got used to it.’ 

“To what?” asked Aggie, astonished. 

Flossie laughed. “I’m sure I don’t know; to 
whatever is upsetting your natural sweetness of dis- 
position at present. As for Mrs. Kilmaney, if she 
said all that you say she did about Midge, she simply 
i isn’t fit to live, and Midge is well rid of her. I’m 
; quite sure that Midge is much too proud and much 


m 


ONLY HUMAN. 


too sensible to worry herself about such a woman for 
a moment. But do you go home, Aggie; in the 
elegant quiet and refinement of the bosom of your 
delightful family you may be able to forget that you 
have a crew of vulgar relations, who are bent on 
trying to prevent your shiniiig in good, really good 
society. Good-by, my dear Aggie, good-by!" 

Mrs. Lawrence grew scarlet. “ Flossie," she gasped 
— she was very angry, and Flossie only laughed at her 
wrath — “Flossie," she said with an effort, “you’ll be 
sorry for this some day ; you will live to rue the day 
that you conspired to set a stranger between our 
poor afflicted mother and her own children. I will 
go. I shall not come again for a long time. If my 
mother wants me I suppose I may expect to be sent 
for?" 

“ Oh, yes — but she won’t — you know you always 
act like a blister on her ! Good-by. " 

Mrs. Lawrence did not condescend to say good-by 
to Midge, who fell among the cushions of the sofa 
and sobbed bitterly as she passed out of the house. 
“Nay, dear child," Flossie said kindly, “don’t cry; 
Aggie isn’t worth it. She’s a regular firebrand; 
they ought to have called her Naggie instead of 
Aggie. Don’t you put yourself out about it.” 

But Midge had passed over the confines of self-con- 
trol. As well might Flossie have told her not to 
breathe, not to exist. She had fought valiantly as 
long as Aggie was in the room, but the moment the 
strain was taken off she gave way and cried like a 
child. 

Flossie watched her for a minute or so, keeping her 


MRS. CHARLES KILMANEY. 


113 


hand upon her shoulder ; then she moved across the 
room and rang the bell. 

“ Varley, bring a cup of tea as soon as you can,” 
she said to the maid who came in answer to the sum- 
mons. 

“ Isn’t Mrs. John well ?” Yarley asked. She, in 
common with all the others, worshipped Midge. 

“ A little overdone ; a cup of tea will do most for 
her,” said Flossie. 

Apparently Yarley had been on the point of bring- 
ing it, for she returned immediately, carrying a tea- 
tray with her. She poured out Midge’s tea and set 
it on a little table beside the sofa. Then she went 
back to the table and poured out a cup for Flossie, 
casting indignant glances at Midge the while. 

“ Excuse me plainly speaking about it, Miss Flos- 
sie,” she said — “oh! I beg your pardon, ma’am; I 
forgot for a minute — but can’t something be done? 
There’s a commotion every time Mrs. Lawrence shows 
her face here. It’s very unpleasant, and Mrs. John 
has quite enough on her mind attending to poor mis- 
tress without being upset and worried like this.” 

“Well, I hope Mrs. Lawrence won’t come again 
for a long time,” said Flossie soothingly. “ She isn’t 
very well or something, and she’s anxious about my 
mother. Mrs. John has other troubles; it’s not all 
Mrs. Lawrence’s fault.” 

“Well, m’,” said Yarley, in an aggrieved tone, 
“ all I can say is that I’ve lived in this house five 
years, and Miss Aggie has never come into it once 
without leaving a disagreeable taste behind her, so to 
speak. Only this afternoon, when I opened the door, 
8 


114 


ONLY HUMAN. 


she began asking me questions about Mrs. John — 
where she went — who came here — what letters she 
had — what Miss Marjie had for dinner, and whether it 
made much difference to the washing bills, and if we 
servants liked having Mrs. John set over us, and so 
on. I haven’t been used to that kind of thing, and 
I wish you would speak to Miss Aggie about it.” 

‘‘I will; that will do, Varley,” said Flossie, in a 
tone which said plainly that no more need be said 
on the subject. “Now, Midge, my dear, sit up; 
drink your tea; don’t let a thing like Aggie worry 
you ; it’s her white eyelashes that are too much for 
her; she can’t forgive all the world that she wasn’t 
born a beauty. Have your tea, dear.” 

By dint of much coaxing and persuading she in- 
duced Midge to dry her eyes and drink the hot and 
fragrant tea; and just as she was filling another cup 
for her, the door opened again, and Varley said — 
“Mrs. Kilmaney.” 

“You’re the very person I most wanted to see,” 
said Flossie coolly. “ How do you do?” 

“Really? I’m glad I happened to come,” said 
Mrs. Kilmaney cheerily. “Why, Midge, darling, 
you’ve been crying! What is it, dear? No fresh 
trouble, I hope?” 

She sat down on the sofa and drew Midge near to 
her. Midge burst out crying again. 

“Why, my dear!” cried Mrs. Kilmaney. 

“Yes, that’s just it,” remarked Flossie dryly. 
“ We’ve just had a visit from my eldest sister, Aggie 
— a charming woman, especially when you know her 
well. And Aggie told us of some particularly nasty 


MRS. CHARLES KILMANEY. 


115 


things that you have been saying about Midge 
there. ” 

“Nasty things — I?” echoed the other, looking 
up with wide-eyed astonishment. “Why, Midge, 
dearest, you didn’t believe it of me? Oh, my 
dear!” 

“I didn’t know what to believe,” sobbed Midge. 
“ I haven’t any faith left in any one; I can’t help it. 
Three months ago I thought my Jack was perfect, 
and ” 

“ Don’t, darling. There, cry away, it will do you 
good,” said Mrs. Kilmaney tenderly. “Flossie, my 
dear, I’m afraid your sister Aggie is neither a kind 
nor a good woman. What did she say?” 

Flossie repeated all that Aggie had told them of 
her conversation with her. Mrs. Kilmaney held 
Midge closer than before. “It is true,” she said, 
“ that something like that did take place ; but it was 
not I who said all those things, but Aggie. I had 
but a short talk to her, for I was just off to my sister’s 
— it was after I saw you, Midge, in Thompson’s last 
week. Mrs. Lawrence spoke of the awkwardness for 
the family of the whole situation, and I agreed with 
her that it was awkward on all accounts. And she 
spoke of the way in which every one seemed to have 
agreed to leave Brooke Gardens alone, and I, fool- 
ishly enough, said that so many people who had been 
quite intimate with those who were in misfortune 
scarcely knew quite what to do; that they did not 
want to be unkind, and yet did not like to intrude. 
But to say that I meant to turn my back on my friend 
because she is in trouble, why, it’s absurd. No, the 


116 


ONLY HUMAN. 


truth is, Mrs. Lawrence has given everything that 
she said a little twist and has put it into my mouth, 
and then she has taken everything I did say and has 
given that a twist, too, and made it all sound very 
clear and likely enough. But don’t let it worry you, 
Midge, my dear. Pack up your things and come 
back to Scotland with me, and when I get you there 
I’ll show you whether I’m a fair-weather friend or 
not. Only come.” 

“ Midge, it would do you good,” put in Flossie. 

“ I must see what mother says,” said Midge decid- 
edly. “You see she has been so good to me, so good 
you can’t think. And now she is ill and helpless I 
simply can’t leave her, unless she does not mind, and 
I think she will — I feel sure she will.” 

And so it proved. When the subject was broached 
to Mrs. Broughton, she was most vociferous in her 
determination that Midge should not leave her, even 
for a day. “ No — no — Midge is not to go away,” she 
said piteously; “I should never have peace for an 
hour. Aggie would come and worry my life out ” 

“Not if I came and stayed, dear mother,” said 
Flossie. 

“No — no — you’ve got your husband; you look 
after him — look after him! He doesn’t want to be 
living here with a tiresome old woman who is ill. 
Midge doesn’t want to go away. Midge and I under- 
stand each other, don’t we, Midge? Besides, I can’t 
spare Midge; I can’t get on without her. She never 
worries me, and if I am to go to Brighton I must 
have Midge.” 

“ Yes — yes — I know; I told them you could not get 




MRS. CHARLES KTLMANEY. 


117 


on without me,” said Midge soothingly. “I won’t 
go away, dear; I promise you.” 

“You see how it excites her,” she said when she 
and Flossie had returned to the morning-room. “ I 
shall be all right ; you need not worry about me. You 
came in at a bad time. Aggie is a singularly cantan- 
kerous girl; really, I don’t know what ails her.” 

“ And you will never believe anything of the kind 
again?” said Mrs. Kilmaney anxiously. 

“ Oh, never!” answered Midge decidedly. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


A DEAD. LEVEL OF DUTY. 

Promises notwithstanding, Midge from that time 
forward was subject to terrible fits of depression. 
She fought against the feeling bravely enough, and 
when there was anything tangible to fight — Aggie’s 
unpleasant suggestions, to wit — she could and did 
fight as gallantly as her best friend could have 
wished. 

But it was the intangible something in the atmos- 
phere of her new life that was so difficult to stand 
against — the knowledge that Mrs. de Wint, who had 
worried her so in the old days to go to her parties, 
now ostentatiously went across the street rather than 
meet her, and by a hundred little signs showed that 
she considered that she contaminated the air of the 
entire metropolis by her very presence, entered into 
her soul like iron. It was not that she hankered 
after Mrs. de Wint’s parties (for those to which she 
had reluctantly gone had bored her to extinction) ; 
it was not that she wished to retain Mrs. de Wint’s 
acquaintance (for she was the kind of woman that 
nobody wanted to know, and whom everybody who 
had the misfortune to know her wished that they 
did not) ; but it was the feeling that such a woman 
had the power to give her the cut direct, and that she 
118 


A DEAD LEVEL OF DUTY. 


119 


had a good and sufficient cause for it — ah, there was 
the worst, the hardest rub of all ! 

And Mrs. de Wint was but one of a type. Midge, 
as time wore on and London began to fill again, never 
attempted to go into society; all those of her old 
acquaintances who looked in any way askance at her 
she dropped silently and without giving them any 
chance of explanation. 

And it was better so, because there is nothing in 
life so utterly painful as to he in doubt whether your 
friends are your friends or not. Mrs. Jack Brough- 
ton never met any of the old friends whose lives had 
slipped away from hers, or any of those who made a 
point of stopping to speak to her and of begging her 
to go to see them, without feeling a kind of nervous 
shrinking come over her — a longing to get out of 
sight, a desire to hide herself. 

In spite of her valiant words to Aggie* there is no 
doubt that she did feel the disgrace of Jack’s sin and 
punishment very, very keenly ; and had it not been 
that Mrs. Broughton’s real need of her forced her to 
brace herself so as to endure the sting and pain of 
these continual meetings with the friends of her past, 
she would have escaped at least that pain and hu- 
miliation by taking little Marjie away to some place 
where nobody knew them, and would there have tried 
to make an independent living for them both. 

But her mother-in-law was helpless and ill ; she had 
real need of her, and Midge knew that her presence 
and that of the child made the one bright spot of 
sunshine in a life which was a very lonely one, and, 
but for them, would he in many ways a very sad one. 


120 


ONLY HUMAN. 


And it must not be supposed that it was all plain 
sailing as far as her life in Brooke Gardens went. 
At the end of three months Nurse Fox was dispensed 
with, and Midge and nurse undertook the care of 
Mrs. Broughton between them. And Midge had to 
put up with a great deal ; for Mrs. Broughton pre- 
ferred her company to that of nurse, and was never 
thoroughly satisfied unless her daughter-in-law was 
actually in the room. Many and many a battle 
royal did she have with nurse on the subject of her 
sharing her room at night, for Mrs. Broughton 
wished to have Midge even then, and made many 
appeals to both doctor and nurse on the subject. 

“No, ma’am, Mrs. John is not strong enough to 
attend to you at night, at least not while you are 
as unwell as you are now. Mrs. John is not strong; 
she never was,” nurse would say uncompromisingly. 
“ Of course, ma’am, we all know that you’ve been as 
sweet and good to her as sweet and good' could be, 
but it’s only in reason that she must feel the differ- 
ence to what was, poor young lady ! And her rest at 
night she must have — she would never keep up else.” 

“Mrs. John never complains,” said the old lady, 
who never seemed to remember the past or to con- 
sider how great a trouble was still gnawing at Midge’s 
heartstrings. 

“Mrs. John isn’t one to complain,” returned 
nurse one day when the invalid had made the 
remark for perhaps the sixth time during the after- 
noon ; “ but when a poor lady — little more than a 
child, as you may say — has a trouble like that, it 
isn’t one that grows any less by time. When you 


A DEAD LEVEL OF DUTY. 


121 


have a loss by death it gets softened as time goes by 
— as you must know by experience, ma’am — but 
when it’s a trouble like the young mistress has, it 
seems to get worse to bear instead of better. No, 
ma’am, you must make up your mind to put up with 
me o’ nights; I’m sure I attend to you duly and 
truly.” 

“Yes, nurse, you do; I haven’t a word to say 
against you, but ” 

“ But you like Mrs. John about you best,” put in 
the other, good-naturedly. “ Well, ma’am, and I 
don’t wonder; I should do just the same if I was 
you. And I’m sure Mrs. John loves every hair of 
your head; you’re first in her thoughts night and 
day, and everything has to give way to your pleasure 
and comfort. She even did speak to the doctor about 
taking my place at night, but he wouldn’t hear tell 
of it, not a word. ‘You’ve got quite enough on 
your hands as it is,’ he says, ‘and you don’t go alter- 
ing the night arrangements until I give you leave. ’ ” 

This for a time settled the question, and Midge 
was able to go to bed in peace without feeling that 
her mother-in-law was fretting for her. But, as if to 
make up for it, Mrs. Broughton insisted on having 
1 Midge with her every moment of the day that was 
I possible. “I want to look over my jewel-case,” she 
said fretfully one day. “ I must decide what to do 
i with all the things, and life is so uncertain one never 
1 knows how soon one may be taken.” 

So Midge got out the heavy, leather-covered case and 
. set it on the little table at her mother-in-law’s right 
■ hand. “Now turn everything out. Where’s Marjie? 


122 


ONLY HUMAN. 


Marjie likes to see," said Mrs. Broughton gleefully. 
She was like a child herself, and loved to see the pretty 
things turned out and polished with a nice little 
leather kept for the purpose. 

“ That was the very first thing John ever gave me,” 
said Mrs. Broughton, pouncing upon a little locket set 
with pink coral and pearls, with a single diamond 
spark in the centre — “ that and the little gold chain. 

It would just do for Marjie. Would Marjie like to 
have that, darling?” 

“Oh, yes, most r’awfully, grannie!” said Marjie, 
who had all a child’s love of pretty trinkets and \ 
no fine feelings of compunction as to taking away a 
treasure from another. 

“No, don’t give her that, dear grannie,” put in 
Midge hastily. “ You value it so much and you will 
miss it, and Marjie might lose it. Give her any- & 
thing but that.” 

But Mrs. Broughton was obstinate. “ No ; I’ve 
made up my mind. Marjie likes it and Marjie shall : 5 
have it. She shall wear it every day. Let grannie 
put it round your neck, darling. Oh! I cannot 
fasten it — poor grannie’s fingers are all thumbs now- 
adays. Midge, you fasten it, dear.” 

“Dear grannie, let it be anything else,” urged 
Midge. 

“No — that and nothing else. It’s the greatest 
treasure I have, and I should like to know what will 
become of it. Why, it might be given to Aggie’s 
child, who would snatch it and not even say thank 
you. Bless me,” seeing signs of dissent in Midge’s 
face, “ bless me, child, cannot I give my own where 


A DEAD LEVEL OF DUTY. 


123 


I like? It’s come to something when you’re afraid 
to let the child take a present for fear of what others 
will say. Ah ! I never thought I should come to this 
— never — that my own children should stand up and 
dispute what I shall do with my own, that I had 
before any of them were born or thought of,” and 
she began to cry weakly, foolish, childish tears, such 
as wrung Midge’s heart afresh and made her eagerly, 
feverishly anxious to do anything or everything to 
check their flow. 

“You shall do as you like, dear grannie,” she 
cried, fastening the pretty trinket around Marjie’s 
neck. “ I was only afraid you might regret it some 
day. Shall we polish up the other things, eh, dear?” 

Mrs. Broughton dried her eyes and sat up, inter- 
ested once more. “ It looks very pretty on Marjie’s 
clean white frock,” she said, quite satisfied and happy 
now that she had got her way. “ Why, where is my 
diamond star? It was one of the last things John 
gave me. Oh, where can it be?” and she began to 
turn the contents of the box over as quickly as she 
could with her one hand. 

“Dear mother,” said Midge, “you gave that to 
Flossie on her wedding-day. Don’t you remember?” 

“ Did I? Oh, so I did! Yes; I remember. Beally, 
I quite had a fright over it. Dear me, how I do for- 
get things!” 

“ Oh, you have been very ill since then, very ill, 
you know, dear,” said Midge gently. “And illnesses 
do make you forget things; especially things that 
happened just before.” 

“Yes — yes,” turning the trinkets over and giving 


124 


ONLY HUMAN. 


up half her attention to Midge. “Ah! now, that’s 
pretty, isn’t it? John gave me that the day Flossie 
was christened. I always meant Flossie to have it, 
but somehow she never got it. I’ll give it to her 
now.” 

“ It ” was a necklace of fine gold, with a fringe of 
fair-sized pearls, and set with a diamond here and 
there. Midge exclaimed aloud at its beauty. 

“ Flossie will be very pleased with it ; but, dear, 
you ought to give the others something, too, or they 
will he jealous.” 

“I might find something for Maudie,” said Mrs. 
Broughton doubtfully, “yes, for Maudie and you.” 

She picked out a beautiful armlet for Maudie — a 
broad hand of gold set with emeralds and pearls. 
And for Midge herself a ring, which she had always 
valued very highly, and had worn during some of the 
happiest days of her life. 

“ And something for Aggie,” said Midge cheerfully. 
She was very just, and would never, even by a hint, 
have done Aggie out of her fair share of her mother’s 
belongings. 

But Mrs. Broughton shut up the box with a snap. 
“No; I am not pleased with Aggie,” she said with 
decision. “Aggie offended me very much the last 
time she was here. I shall give her nothing — noth- 
ing at all.” 

There was nothing more to be said ; the box was 
locked and put away, Marjie sent off happy with her 
locket and chain, and Mrs. Broughton settled herself 
for a comfortable little sleep. 

Midge, left to herself, with at least an hour to 


A DEAD LEVEL OF DUTY. 


125 


spend in peace, went down to the morning-room and 
opened the newspaper which she had not had time to 
look at before. And the first paragraph that caught 
her eye was an announcement that Her Majesty had 
been graciously pleased to confer a peerage upon Sir 
James Craddock, and that he would take his seat as 
Baron Esseldine, of Esseldine, in the county of War- 
wick! 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


HAGAR AKD ISHMAEL. 

Time went slowly by in the pleasant house in Brooke 
Gardens; it was a pleasant house, sunny and com- 
modious, and little Marjie throve and grew apace, and 
never seemed to miss the big house in which she had 
been born, or the father who had always been so in- 
dulgent and playful to her. 

Children are like that; if they are happy, they ask 
no more than they have at the moment ; the present 
is enough for them, as it will never be again after 
they have passed their childhood. 

To Midge the days went by so slowly, oh, so 
slowly! You see, it was such a different life to that 
to which she had been accustomed ; it was very dull. 
She had no amusement of any kind except the prattle 
of little Marjie, and the tedious and often painful 
reminiscences of her late husband’s mother. 

It was a very anxious life too. She had always the 
horrible feeling that, except by Flossie and the poor 
invalid herself, she was regarded by all her husband’s 
people as an interloper, and more or less as the cause 
of the trouble and disgrace which had befallen them 
as a family. Indeed, it was only by taking advantage 
of their internal dissensions that she was able to keep 
the peace in any sense. 


126 


HAGAR AND ISHMAEL. 


127 


True, she knew perfectly well that as long as Mrs. 
Broughton lived these dissensions would always arise, 
that assuredly from time to time Flossie would take 
umbrage at or give offence to Maudie, and that 
Maudie and Aggie would never be friends for a whole 
week together ; that is, unless they did not happen to 
see each other the while. 

But although it was possible to steer fairly clear, 
and to continually have a friend and champion at 
hand among all these disputes and bickerings, yet a 
life of that kind is neither cheerful nor ennobling. 
And, again, it was all so new to Midge. She and Jack 
had never wrangled, never, for Midge was naturally 
of a very sweet and easy disposition, although with the 
pluck and courage of a lion when occasion made 
necessary. And Jack’s brothers and sisters, having 
up to the time of his trouble always had reason for 
keeping on good terms with him, had never let either 
Midge or him see the quarrelsome and disagreeable 
side of their natures. So when Midge was cast for- 
lorn and helpless upon the mercy of the world, it 
was like a revelation to her to find out that these girls 
whom she had so effectually helped and befriended 
were something utterly and totally different from 
what she had, during all these years, believed them 
to be. 

She was completely cut off, too, from all society. 
Mrs. Kilmaney came to see her pretty often when she 
was in London, and renewed her pressing invitations 
to go to Scotland from time to time ; but Midge never 
went. Once or twice she broached the idea to Mrs. 
Broughton, but she, poor lady, wept so piteously and 


128 


ONLY HUMAN. 


said Midge must not desert her, that she would have 
no peace of her life if she were left to the tender 
mercies of Aggie and Maudie, who would quarrel and 
wrangle until she was driven distracted between them ; 
and, indeed, she made herself so ill from fretting at 
the mere idea of it, that Midge once and for all gave 
up all hope of ever having a holiday as long as her 
poor mother-in-law should live. 

“ I wouldn’t go away, ma’am,” said the nurse, who 
in spite of many hints and remonstrances both from 
Mrs. Lawrence and Mrs. Cathcart, still remained in 
the household, chiefly as Mrs. Broughton’s attendant, 
hut giving an eye to the young French girl who had 
charge of Marjie, and was in fact her maid. “ I 
wouldn’t run the risk of it, ma’am; you’ve got the 
future and the dear child to consider, and if once 
Mrs. Lawrence gets her foot fairly planted in the 
house, neither you nor I nor the poor lady upstairs 
will he able to stand against her. And Mrs. Brough- 
ton has a good bit of money to leave.” 

“ I don’t want to do anything unfair, nurse,” said 
Midge quickly, “ I don’t want to bring any undue 
influence to bear on Mrs. Broughton. After all, her 
daughters are her daughters, you know ; they have 
rights to he considered. M 

“ Yes, ma’am — and so has the blessed child. She 
has rights, too, and it’s your right to look after them. 
If Mrs. Lawrence can do Miss Marjie out of her share, 
Mrs. Lawrence won’t hesitate to do it. Besides, the 
very sight of her nearly worries the poor old lady into 
a fresh attack. No, ma’am, it’s not my place, being 
only a servant, to speak, but I’m devotedly fond of 


HAGAR AND ISHMAEL. 129 

Miss Marjie, and of you too, and when I see, I must 
speak or I should burst.” 

Midge laughed outright. “ You’ve been a good old 
friend to me, nurse,” she said gratefully, “and I 
have no intention now of going to Mrs. Kilmaney’s. 
At the same time, nurse, I do want a holiday, oh, so 
badly, so badly!” 

She leant her head wearily on. her hand, and the 
older woman knew how sore the burden was ; and being 
a wise woman, she touched the one chord in poor 
Midge’s heart which could start her into renewed life 
again. 

“ It’s for Miss Marjie’s sake, dear ma’am,” she said 
softly, “for the dear blessed innocent that knows 
nothing of all the trouble and the change that’s come 
into her mother’s life; it’s for her you must keep up 
your heart, dear ma’am ; think what would become 
of her if you was to give way and let them that ought 
to know better trample on you.” 

Midge was roused in a moment. “Yes, nurse, 
yes, my kind old friend, you are right. I must 
think of Miss Marjie — yes. She has no one else to 
think of her now. It’s very weak and silly of me, 
nurse,” she went on piteously, “but I haven’t got 
used to being alone yet, and — and — I feel so unfit 
sometimes to fight always — always, with no hope of 
peace except through death, perhaps not even then. 
Before — before our trouble, I did not know the feel- 
ing of having an enemy; but now I seem to be sur- 
rounded by those who wish me ill, or, at least, wish 
me out of the way, out of their way. I’ve always had 
some one to lean on, and now when I have to be on 
9 


130 


ONLY HUMAN. 


the watch a dozen ways at once, I do find it hard. 
But I won’t give way. I’ll remember that it is for 
Miss Marjie’s sake.” 

So from that day she gave up all idea of ever get- 
ting a change from the burden which had been put 
upon her shoulders almost without her own consent. 
“ You can come and see me when you can,” she wrote 
to Mrs. Kilmaney, “ and if you do, you will help me 
more than you know, but do not, if you love me, 
dear, ask me again to go to Scotland. I cannot help 
wanting to go, and if you do not ask me, I do not feel 
the terrible temptation or the longing to get away 
from this life of strife as I do when I know your kind 
heart and your cheerful house are waiting to welcome 
me.” 

So she went on firmly and steadfastly, breaking 
down only in the dead of the night, or in the faithful 
and comforting presence of old nurse. And as- 
suredly, poor child, she had her work cut out to keep 
the peace, even the semblance of peace in her mother- 
in-law’s presence. 

For the continual bone of contention between her 
and the two elder of her sisters- in-law was the fact of 
there being a maid in the house to attend upon Marjie. 
It might, to some people, have seemed a little 
strange, but after Mrs. Broughton’s first seizure, when 
she was sufficiently recovered to be able to dispense 
with the services of a trained nurse, Marjie’s nurse 
and Varley had, together with the cook, laid their 
heads together one day, and had come to Midge with 
their ideas on the subject of the reorganization of the 
little household. 


HAGAR, AND ISHMAEL. 


131 


“ We’ve been thinking and talking things over, we 
three, ma’am,” said nurse, who was the spokes- 
woman, “and as Ward is going to be married, we 
think that the mistress could make a better arrange- 
ment than by just getting another housemaid. If I 
undertake the duties of looking after the mistress, 
Varley thinks, as there' is so little company now, that 
a yo.ung maid who would give two hours to house- 
work in the morning and half an hour at night, would 
be quite as comfortable as having an expensive house- 
maid, who would not turn her hand to anything else. 
The mistress would get more attention that way than 
any, and as Miss Marjie sleeps in your room, ma’am, 
there would be no fear of Miss Marjie not being just 
as happy as ever she was in her life. ” 

“ Yes, it is a very good arrangement. I will take 
the first opportunity of speaking to Mrs. Broughton 
about it,” said Midge. 

Mrs. Broughton took to the new idea very kindly. 
She had gradually got to like nurse very much; she 
was a soothing, restful person, and would let her 
ramble on in interminable reminiscences, putting in 
a word here, an interrogation there, in such a way as 
to make her believe that the old woman was deeply 
interested in all that she had to say. In truth, how- 
ever, Mrs. Broughton’s reminiscences, like those of 
most paralyzed people, were wearisome to the last 
degree; for, poor thing, -she told her little stories over 
and over and over again, in exactly the same words, 
with precisely the same accent, with the same little 
chuckling laugh in just the very same place. To 
Midge, those stories of the by-gone days began to get 


132 


ONLY HUMAN. 


terrible, moments of dread in which her very heart- 
strings seemed sometimes to be torn in twain, for very 
often they would be about Jack’s childhood, his baby 
sayings, his achievements as a lad at Eton, or the 
exploits of his youth. She endured them, it is true, 
but, if ever nurse came in and found the young mis- 
tress with a certain white and anxious look upon her 
face, she invariably came to the rescue with some 
leading question, which would inevitably start Mrs. 
Broughton off into a long and pleasant babble which 
she firmly believed she was telling for the first time ! 
And then Midge would escape and positively gasp for 
breath, feeling as if she had just come out of a fierce 
battle. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


A CHANGE OF FRONT. 

Mrs. Edward Lawrence — Aggie — after bickering 
and sneering and jibing at Midge for more than a 
year on the subject of her wanton and reckless ex- 
travagance in the manner in which Marjie was 
brought up, suddenly took a ditferent line and 
changed her tactics altogether. 

All at once she became quite amiable and friendly 
toward Midge, noticed her pale and anxious looks, 
declared that they had all been very selfish and blind, 
that Midge was simply being worn out by her assidu- 
ous attention to her mother, and gave it as her opinion 
that she really needed and required a good long rest 
and change. 

“ I shall make it my business to see that you get it, 
Midge,” she said graciously; “leave it all to me, my 
dear. I declare, I positively feel ashamed to look at 
you !” 

Midge was thoroughly astonished, but she took the 
idea very quietly, and answered civilly enough. 

“Oh! thank you, Aggie,” she said simply. “I’m 
sure, you are very kind. I should like a change im- 
mensely, but, you see, it’s quite out of the question.” 

“And why?” inquired Aggie sharply. 

“ Well, because your mother won’t hear of my going 
133 


134 


ONLY HUMAN. 


away even for a day, and, of course, her wishes stand 
with me before everything else.” 

“Oh, nonsense!” said Aggie, with a nonchalant 
air, “ in her state she ought not to be consulted so 
much. Of course, she says no to any proposed 
change — she would say no whatever was proposed. 
In her state, she is not fit to decide everything for 
herself or you.” 

“My dear Aggie,” said Midge, looking up in sur- 
prise, “your mother is as capable of deciding her 
affairs as she ever was. You are very greatly mistaken 
about her, I assure you.” 

“ She is certainly not capable of transacting busi- 
ness,” said Aggie, in very tart accents, “and never 
has been since her seizure.” 

Midge laughed. -“Oh, yes,” she said lightly, 
“quite capable.” 

“ Does Mr. Argent think so?” 

“ Yes, I am sure he does; he consults her on every 
point connected with her property. Why, only yester- 
day he came to see her about some repairs needed to 
the roof of the Monk’s House. Why, Aggie, one 
might fancy from your tone that you thought her 
insane.” 

“Not at all,” said Aggie, “but I do think her 
childish.” 

“ Oh, no, a little forgetful at times — that is her 
complaint. But no more childish than you or I.” 

Aggie tossed up her head. “ Well, Midge, I think 
it only right to warn you that we should contest any 
will my poor mother was induced to make in her 
present state of health.” 


A CHANGE OF FRONT. 


135 


For a moment there was a dreadful silence. Midge 
turned scarlet from chin to brow and stared at her 
sister-in-law with haughty surprise. 

“ If anybody induces your mother to make a new 
will, it will be one of you,” she said contemptuously. 
“ I don’t think she has the smallest intention of doing 
so herself, and I have never mentioned the subject to 
her, and never shall do so. But I’m glad you told me 
your ideas, Aggie, because that tells me that you have 
no desire to take undue advantage of her weakness. 
It is aways comforting to know that people’s motives 
are straight. And it is really most kind of you to 
think of me and wish me to go away. Unfortunately, 
as I told you just now, your mother will not hear of 
it, and naturally, after the friend she has been to me, 
her wish is my law. I should have gone to Scotland 
more than once, but she made herself quite ill at the 
mere mention of it, so I, as a matter of course, gave 
up all idea of anything of the kind.” 

Aggie almost gasped in her surprise at being met 
so coolly and firmly ; however, she recovered herself 
and said, “ It’s a great pity mother cannot be got 
away to the sea-side herself. But I suppose, with all 
her expenses, poor thing, she cannot afford it.” 

“Oh, yes, she could, easily,” said Midge, with a 
fine air of carelessness that she was very far from feel- 
ing ; “ but, you see, when she did go, she was not so 
well, and she did not like the change; the strange 
house upset her, and she missed Dr. Aynesworth 
wonderfully, and she firmly refuses to be moved at 
all.” 

Aggie drew a long breath. “ Well,” she said some- 


136 


ONLY HUMAN. 


what vindictively, “ I think that when an old lady gets 
beyond taking care of herself, her nearest relatives 
ought to step in and arrange what is best for her, 
that’s what I think.” 

“Yes, and a very sensible arrangement, too,” said 
Midge very quietly, “ but when the old lady’s doctor 
and lawyer are both perfectly convinced of her com- 
plete ability to manage her own affairs, such an 
excellent plan is entirely and absolutely out of the 
question.” 

“ I still think that my mother is not fit to look 
after herself,” persisted Aggie. 

“ Yes — but they do not, and, of course, the law 
would go entirely by what they would say about it.” 

“Well, Midge,” said Aggie spitefully, “we have all 
quite made up our minds to dispute any will that my 
mother makes now.” 

Midge could not help smiling, a satirical smile not 
expressive of actual amusement. “ I see you still harp 
on that string, Aggie,” she said, “ but I give you my 
word that your mother never mentions her will to me 
nor I to her. However, as it’s no good talking to me 
about it, hadn’t you better go and see Dr. Aynes- 
worth and Mr. Argent about her state? Then, per- 
haps, you may be satisfied.” 

“No, I don’t want to do that,” said the other a 
little uneasily. “ You see it wouldn’t look well.” 

“Well, it wouldn’t,” said Midge, laughing out- 
right ; then after a moment’s silence added : “ My 
dear Aggie, don’t you think you had better make up 
your mind to let your mother live her own life in her 
own way? I think you would be the gainer by doing 


A CHANGE OF FRONT. 


137 


so. You know perfectly well that your mother was 
always a very strong-willed woman, determined in 
haying her own way. Her affliction has not lessened 
that trait in her character; quite the contrary.” 

Aggie began to look suspiciously dewy about the 
eyes; and Aggie’s eyes were of that kind which cer- 
tainly look better in the sunshine of smiles than when 
in the mist of tears. She always went red when she 
began to cry, and although a great amount of senti- 
mental nonsense is written about blushing, Aggie 
was a woman who could never under such circum- 
stances have inspired anything of that kind. She 
was one of the ordinary every-day-looking people, and 
looked red and uncomfortable when she blushed, and 
horrid when she cried. 

“I came only thinking of you, Midge,” she said, 
sniffing wretchedly, “ with the best and purest motives. 
I’m sure, you needn’t take me up in that way, as if I 
wanted to encompass my poor suffering mother’s 
death.” 

“Did I first speak of your mother’s will?” asked 
Midge, on whom the tears had no effect whatever. 

“You’re so unsympathetic,” Aggie returned, still 
sniffing, and carefully avoiding the question. “I 
know in your heart, Midge, that you blame all of us 
for Jack’s sin and downfall; but what had we to do 
with it? I ask you, Midge, as woman to woman, 
what had we to do with it?” 

She spread out her hands with such a piteous air 
of pleading that any one might have believed that she 
was the crushed and despised wife of the sinner, and 
that Midge, who was wearing a pretty white gown, a 


138 


ONLY HUMAN. 


relic of her old life, in which she looked fresh and 
charming, was the fault-finding, superior sister-in- 
law. The whole effect was so ludicrous that Midge 
burst out laughing and said just what was in her 
mind. 

“ Oh, Aggie!” she broke out, “how can you be so 
silly? How can you? Eeally, any one who did not 
know, might think that I was ill-using you, whereas, 
in truth,. I have never uttered a word about your 
being to blame for Jack’s fault. In a way we were 
all to blame for it, for we all spent as much as we 
could get, and looked upon Jack as a sort of gold- 
mine out of which we could get unlimited luxury and 
wealth. But, personally, I blame you no more than 
I blame myself and scarcely as much. Besides, if I 
had been unjust enough to put all the blame upon 
you, you must know yourself whether you are to blame 
or not. So what is the good of upsetting yourself in 
this way for nothing? And about your mother’s 
will — you are very rich ; it can make no material dif- 
ference to you how she leaves her little fortune.” 

“ Yes — but — ” and Aggie stopped short and wiped 
her eyes with an aggrieved air; and she was ag- 
grieved; she felt that she had thoroughly got the 
worst of it. 

“ You have dear little children and a good, affec- 
tionate husband,” Midge went on, thinking sadly 
of her own desolate life. 

“ Oh ! it isn’t all beer and skittles, having a good, 
affectionate husband,” Aggie burst out. 

“Oh, Aggie!” cried Midge. She was genuinely 
shocked, and showed it both in face and tone. 


A CHANGE OF FRONT. 


139 


“Well,” cried Aggie, with miserable defiance, 
“Edward is very rich; he made most extravagant 
settlements on me, and he wants to know Iioav I spend 
every halfpenny. And I do loathe all his lot so — his 
sisters and sisters-in-law and cousins and aunts and 
all the rest. Yesterday I bought a new dinner-dress, 
and Edward said he thought I was a reckless fool, and 
that I wanted it no more than he wanted Windsor 
Castle and ” 

“Mr. Argent!” said Yarley, opening the door. 

Midge rose up to meet the lawyer, and Aggie passed 
her handkerchief over her burning face in a vain 
attempt to hide the evidences of the fray from the 
cold, keen eyes of her mother’s legal adviser. 

“ I hope Mrs. Broughton is not worse,” he said to 
Midge. 

“Not at all,” she replied promptly; “my sister-in- 
law and I have been talking about her, and she is a 
little upset. I should like you to reassure her about 
her mother’s state, Mr. Argent, if you can and will. 
Mrs. Lawrence is convinced that Mrs. Broughton is 
incapable of managing her affairs, and thinks that 
one or all of her children ought to manage them for 
her.” 

“My dear lady,” said Mr. Argent, who detested 
Aggie cordially, “your mother is as sane or saner 
than you are.” 

“Not childish?” said Aggie eagerly. 

“Not a bit,” said the lawyer promptly. 

Aggie looked at him with a question in her eyes 
and in her heart, a question that she did not like to 
ask. Midge asked it for her. 


140 


ONLY HUMAN. 


“Mr. Argent,” she said quietly, “my sister-in-law 
is worried a good deal thinking that her mother may 
be got at and induced to make a new will. Would 
such a will stand?” 

“ Most assuredly.” 

“We should dispute it,” murmured Aggie, almost 
under her breath. 

The lawyer turned to her quickly. “ Would you?” 
he said, with a smile. “ Well, Mrs. Lawrence, if my 
respected client wishes to make a new will, we must 
call you into a consultation, eh? But as she has 
already made a remarkably just and kindly one, and 
the subject does not appear to worry her at all, I 
really don’t think we shall be in any need of your 
services.” 

“When did she make it? Since her seizure?” 
Aggie demanded. 

“ It was made within a few hours of your brother’s 
arrest, when Mrs. Broughton was in the very prime 
of health and strength, and with no more sign of this 
trouble about her than you have at this moment.” 

“ Have you got the will?” asked Aggie, 


CHAPTER XX. 


A NEW TERROR. 

“Have you got the will?” said Aggie to Mr. 
Argent. 

Mr. Argent looked surprised. “Yes! I have,” he 
rejoined, rather stiffly. 

“Oh!” — as he did not help her out, Aggie was 
somewhat puzzled to know how to go on further; 
“ Oh! and you consider it a just will?” 

“ I do, a very just will,” he replied. 

“ Would there — at least, I mean — you wouldn’t 
let me see it, Mr. Argent, would you?” she blurted 
out. 

Mr. Argent stared 'at her. “Mrs. Lawrence,” he 
said, “ I should have thought that a lady who had 
been brought up in a legal atmosphere would have 
known better than to ask such a question of a lawyer. ” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Aggie, looking a little confused, 
“ I might have known you wouldn’t ! But it was not 
of myself that I was thinking, not at all. Still, I am 
very much relieved to find that my mother’s affairs 
are in order and that she has made a just will, and 
has no idea of making a new one. I think I will go 
now, Midge. By the bye, I shall not be coming again 
for some little time. Edward and I are going away 
for a few days ; I did not tell mother — I thought it 
might excite her, poor thing!” 

141 


142 


ONLY HUMAN. 


“Oh! much better not. Good-by, Aggie,” said 
Midge very pleasantly. 

She could not feel angry with Aggie, for she had 
won the day. And when you’ve got to fight, there 
is a great pride and satisfaction in winning now and 
again, and poor Midge had so little satisfaction in 
her life just then, except the bare satisfaction of 
knowing that she was doing her duty, that she was 
quite elated at having come otf victor. 

But, after all, a satisfaction of that kind is one that 
soon palls on you. Mr. Argent went up and had his 
interview with Mrs. Broughton, and Midge followed 
him presently, and gave them both a cup of tea, and 
poor Mrs. Broughton, who was a social soul, quite 
enjoyed the unwonted excitement. But when the 
lawyer had gone and Mrs. Broughton had sunk into 
a quiet doze, and Midge had had Marjie for half an 
hour and had sent her ofi: to bed, the glow was all 
gone and she felt very, very lonely and sad. 

It was not as if the nuisance of fighting for her 
place with Aggie was now at an end. She had won, 
it is true, but it would not be a lasting victory ; after 
a few days Aggie would come to the front again with 
some fresh and ingenious form of torture, and Midge 
would have to go on the rack once more, whether she 
would or not. It was most of anything like keeping 
rats at bay, say from getting into a soft-wood corn- 
bin. They make a hole in one side big enough to 
put your hand through, and you nail a flattened-out 
sardine-tin over the place through which, if they 
nibbled and worked for a hundred years, they would 
never get. No, but they go a little further on and 


A NEW TERROR. 


143 


pick out a soft place in the wood, and start on a fresh 
doorway; you flatten out a biscuit-tin and nail it over 
that place, and think you really have done them this 
time. Not a bit of it — foiled at every point by the 
unpalatable presence of sardine or other tins, they 
turn their attention to the bottom of the useful 
article! And after a week or so, you find a good 
share of the contents reposing on the floor of your 
coach-house or wherever you stand your corn-bin! 
As long as a scrap of unprotected wood remains un- 
covered, the rats will work their way, somehow or 
other, to the inside of the corn-bin. So with Midge ; 
so long as Mrs. Broughton should live, Midge knew 
perfectly well one or other of her relations-in-law 
would find a way in which they might worry her 
almost to death ! 

And so they did ; with the exception of Flossie, who 
was devoted to her mother and particularly fond of 
Midge, her husband’s people were never all friendly 
and civil to her at one time. And when two years of 
Jack’s time had expired, George, the second son, 
the black sheep of the family, suddenly, without a 
word of warning to any of them, took up his abode at 
Brooke Gardens, as Yarley put it, “ as large as life and 
twice as natural.” 

Mrs. Broughton was not pleased to see him. “ Oh! 
is it you, George?” was her greeting to him. “ What 
have you come home for?” 

“I came, most of all, to see you, mother,” he 
answered meekly. 

“ Oh ! well, that’s very good of you. Of course you 
know things are very much altered with us all. I 


144 


ONLY HUMAN. 


think you had better have stayed where you were. 
What are you going to do for a living?” 

George stammered and turned very red. I’ve had 
a pretty hard time out there, I can tell you,” he said 
rather aggrievedly, “ and I think you might be a little 
more glad to see md now I have come back again.” 

“ But I am not glad,” persisted Mrs. Broughton, in 
a perfectly unmoved tone. “ If you have come home 
to work, well and good ; if you have come to tell me, 
as you did before you went away, that you have got as 
good a right to your father’s money as I have, you 
had better go away again, and the sooner the better.” 

George, however, did not commit himself to any 
promises or betrayal of his future intentions ; he bore 
his mother’s reproaches and kept as much out of her 
way as he could. He was very shabby, and he had 
no money, and altogether looked very down-fallen and 
disreputable. Midge managed to persuade his mother 
to pay for a couple of suits and a great-coat, and some 
such minor trifles as ties and socks and boots. But 
Mrs. Broughton would not part with a halfpenny, as 
she put it, “for George to waste.” 

George, however, was not proud ; young men who 
have roughed it in the States come back to their 
homes in the old country with ideas more given to an 
appreciation of the blessed state of receiving than 
that of giving. George was quite willing to receive 
anything from anybody, even insults. 

So George went the round of the family, levying 
toll, now on one, now on another, taking as much as 
he could get from even Midge’s slender hoard, and 
spending every farthing of it in drinking and riotous 


A NEW TERROR. 


145 


living. And, after the manner of such people, as 
soon as he found that he was tolerated he at once 
began to encroach, to take little liberties, to assume 
the air of being master of the house, and to lord it 
over Midge and his mother’s servants. He began to 
send Marjie trotting to fetch his boots or his gloves 
or for fresh milk, if it happened to fall short at break- 
fast, and to order brandy-and-soda early in the morn- 
ing, and to find fault with the simplicity of the meals. 
Midge, however, did not bear it long, while from the 
very first she stopped his attempt to make Marjie into 
a little slave — Midge was very tenacious of her ideas 
about Marjie. 

“George, if you want more milk, ring the bell,” 
she said, the first time that the young gentleman tried 
to send Marjie trotting off to the kitchen. “ Marjie 
has not been used to doing that sort of thing.” 

“ It’s time she began to make herself useful, then,” 
remarked George, with his mouth full of buttered 
toast. “ Here,” holding out the pretty silver jug to 
Marjie, “cut along, little ’un; come, stir your 
stumps.” 

“Marjie, sit still, my darling,” said Midge, in a 
severely cold voice. 

“Do you hear?” said George sharply to the child. 

“Yes, but Midge says I mustn’t,” returned Marjie 
promptly, and soberly going on with her breakfast. 

George got up in a rage and rang the bell with a 
pull that nearly tore the wire down. “H’m; it’s 
come to something when a child can’t even fetch 
something!” he muttered. 

“ Because Marjie has never done it — it would get 
10 


146 


ONLY HUMAN. 


her into the bad habit of running about during 
meals — and because Varley cannot endure not having 
everything done properly and in order,” explained 
Midge coldly, “and,” with a slight emphasis on the 
words, “ most of anything because you did not ask her 
to do it politely.” 

“ By Jove ! I’m not going to stand this !” lie flashed 
out. “ You seem to forget, Midge, that I am master 
here, and you only a hanger-on ” 

“We’ll soon settle that question,” said Midge, 
growing very white. 

“We will. I am going to bring two men home to 
dinner to-night. Dinner at eight o’clock and to the 
minute. And see that it’s a decent dinner.” 

Midge laughed outright. “ I wouldn’t advise you 
to try that on, George,” she said with great amuse- 
ment. “ You will bring no guests here without your 
mother’s consent; if you do, I’m afraid they will 
have a sorry reception.” 

“ We’ll see about that,” he said threateningly. 

“I’m afraid you will see,” said Midge quietly. 
“ Anyway, I assure you I have no intention of allow- 
ing you to worry your mother, or to order my little 
child about like a servant. I shall telegraph for your 
sisters as soon as breakfast is over and for Dr. 
Aynesworth and Mr. Argent. And if you make the 
least fuss to your mother you shall be turned out of 
the house altogether.” 

The mere mention of his sisters was enough to cow 
him; he knew he could not afford to have exposures 
made to them, as then his best way of supplying him- 
self with funds would be cut off, and he had no fancy 


A NEW TERROR. 


147 


for killing his geese with the golden eggs. He looked 
up at Midge with something like admiration. 

“ Well,” he said bluntly, “ you’re a spiteful little cat, 
and I don’t wonder Jack went to the bad as he did.” 

Midge did not answer except with her eyes. George 
finished his coffee ami got up. 

“You’ve got the best of me this time,” he said, 
and then added darkly, “ hut I’ll he even with you 
yet; that I promise you.” 

But all the answer he got from Midge was a look 
of chill contempt ; and when he had fairly gone she 
hid her face in her hands and cried as if her heart 
would break. 

What a life it was ! A life of plenty, even of luxury, 
and yet with every day, with every hour, the iron 
seemed to he eating more and more deeply into her 
soul, and she was more and more driven to brood over 
her troubles, as there seemed to be more things to 
hide from her dear little innocent child. 

And Jack had then been in prison three years; it 
seemed like eternity since those happy and never-to- 
be-forgotten days when she and Jack had lived at 
the dear Monk’s House together, with never a cloud 
between them to mar their happiness. 

“Don’t cry, dear Midge,” said the child, creeping 
! close up to her and putting her slender arm protect- 
j ingly around her neck, “ don’t cry.” 

And that night George Broughton was brought 
home in a cab appallingly drunk ! 

Midge was terrified; *she never thought of drunken- 
ness when she saw the helpless form, the white face 
and half-closed eyes.. 


148 


ONLY HUMAN. 


“What is it?” she asked of the friend who had 
helped to bring him into the hall. “ A fight, an acci- 
dent? How did it happen?” 

“Why, you see, madam,” he replied, and he had 
the grace to look somewhat ashamed of himself, “ it 
was like this: Broughton tried a drinking-match 
with a harder-headed man than himself, and he lost. 
That was how it was. ” 

“ Drunk !” she repeated. She scarcely spoke above 
a whisper and leaned against the hall- table with a 
scared face. George’s friend looked at her with a 
smile of pity. 

“ It is very evident you are not used to this sort of 
thing, madam,” he said. “If you will show us his 
bedroom we will get him upstairs and into bed. It 
is not fit work for a lady to do.” 

“For a lady!” echoed Midge. “Why, I wouldn’t 
touch him with the end of a pitchfork. For all I 
would do he might lie there and die on the floor ; it 
is a shameful, a disgraceful, a degrading sight ! I 
never saw the like before. But, gentlemen, it is very 
kind of you to help me ; the maid will show you the 
way.” 

She bowed to them and went back into the morn- 
ing-room, closing the door after her. Her heart was 
beating hard and fast, her hands were cold with fear. 
What would the end of it all be? What if this be- 
came an every-day occurrence, and he took to coming 
home about half as drunk as this, when, instead of 
being helpless and senseless, he might be irritable or 
maudlin — what should she, what could she do then? 


CHAPTER XXL 


BEST. 

The question was, however, settled for Midge ; for 
Mrs. Broughton was blessed with extraordinary acute- 
ness of hearing, and as Yarley did not, in the excite- 
ment of the moment, remember to warn George’s 
friends against making a noise, they went upstairs 
with no more caution than they would have done in 
an ordinary household. And just as they reached the 
door of the drawing-room the one who was walking 
backward stumbled and fell against it with a bump 
which shook the double doors and roused Mrs. 
Broughton out of her first sleep. 

“ Nurse — nurse — what is it?” she cried. She was 
trembling in every limb, and the nurse, who was sit- 
ting in the front room sewing with the door of com- 
munication ajar, jumped up and ran to see what was 
the cause of the noise. 

A glance was enough to satisfy her, and she went 
hack to the invalid. “Don’t worry, ma’am,” she 
said, feeling that it was wisest and kindest to tell her 
the truth without softening it in any way. “Mr. 
George has had more than is good for him, and two 
gentlemen, his friends, I should think, are taking 
him up to bed.” 

“ Is he helpless?” Mrs. Broughton asked. 

149 


150 


ONLY HUMAN. 


“ That he is, ma’am, but don’t you worry about 
it,” she said soothingly. 

“I can’t help worrying,” Mrs. Broughton said 
fretfully. “ Kurse, you’ve been a good and faithful 
servant to Mrs. John and a great comfort to me. I 
want you to tell me the truth. I know that a great 
deal is kept back from me, out of kindness, too, but 
I’m helpless and dependent on those around me not 
to keep me too much in the dark, not to keep things 
from me that I ought to know. It has seemed to me 
that lately, Mrs. John, my dear, dear daughter, has 
looked ill and worn. Is it so, nurse?” 

“ I’ll not hide it from you, ma’am,” said the nurse 
quietly; “my dear young mistress, bless her, is tried 
just now almost beyond what she can bear. Mr. 
George is making her life a burden to her.” 

“How?” 

The old nurse was a wise woman ; she knew that 
the shock of the crash against the door would effect- 
ually prevent the invalid from sleeping for hours to 
come, and she felt that it would be best for all if she 
told her what she was then burning to know. So she 
told her most of the things that had happened since 
George came home, of the way he had behaved down- 
stairs, and of the insults he had heaped upon Midge. 
Mrs. Broughton was wonderfully calm about it. 

“Ho, I’m not going to worry about it, nurse,” 
she said to the nurse’s expression of regret that she 
should so have been awakened. “ I have long got 
beyond that. Sit down and write a note to Mr. 
Argent, asking him to come here the first thing in the 
morning, and see that it is posted to-night ; it is not 


REST. 


151 


very late, is it? It is bad enough to be paralyzed 
and helpless, and to know that my dear Midge is 
breaking her heart — but those are troubles we cannot 
help. There is no need to bear trouble that we can 
remove. No, lam not going to worry myself at all, 
nurse.” 

“ I hope you are not going to worry about your 
property, ma’am,” said the nurse. 

“ Not at all. My will is all settled and Mr. George 
will have what will keep him out of the workhouse. 
I am going to add a codicil, that is all. And Mr. 
Argent will have my instructions to remove Mr. 
George out of the house. As to what Mr. George 
said about being master here and about his brother, he 
makes a mistake in both cases. Mr. Jack did wrong, 
very wrong, and he has suffered dearly for it. But 
he was always a good son ; when he had plenty his 
mother was welcome to it, and I don’t forget it. As 
for Mrs. John and Miss Marjie, they are the joy of 
my old age. God only knows what would have be- 
come of me without my dear Midge.” 

She soon settled off to sleep again, and the house 
became quiet. Nurse wrote the letter to Mr. Argent 
and took it down to ask Yarley to post it. Then the 
servants and Midge went to bed, and if Midge cried 
herself to sleep nobody but herself and One other 
knew it. As for Mrs. Broughton, she slept like a 
little child. 

And in the morning George Broughton left the 
house ; he was very loth to go, and blustered a good 
deal, but having only a suggestion of a policeman as 
an alternative to going quietly, he made a virtue of 


152 


ONLY HUMAN. 


necessity and betook himself away, and peace reigned 
in the little household once more. 

So time passed on. I think that as Marjie grew 
older Midge felt less dull, less wretched. She began 
to give the child lessons, and already Marjie could 
speak French fluently. And Marjie was quite a little 
companion to her mother, loving her with a great 
and abiding devotion, probably deeper and fonder 
because of the comparative isolation of their life. 
Still, it was only at best a putting on of time, a look- 
ing forward to that time when, if things went well 
with them, she and Marjie would be free to go away 
out of the reach of all the people who knew her 
story, free to begin a new life in a new country, or, 
at least, in a new town together. 

I think, on the whole, that the attitude of the 
entire family toward Midge became, as the years 
crept over, less objectionable. They had their own 
cares, their own pleasures, their own ambitions and 
interests; they had got used to seeing her in Brooke 
Gardens and to thinking of her as a safe guardian of 
their mother. And as time went quietly on, and 
Mrs. Broughton’s health remained precisely the same, 
they all realized that not one of them would have 
been able, having their own homes and husbands to 
look after, to devote themselves to her as Midge had 
done; and Flossie, who had always stood up for 
Midge, more than once gave it as her opinion that 
whatever share Midge eventually got of their mother’s 
money she would thoroughly have earned it. So, 
gradually, Midge became mistress of the situation, 
and her sway was but very little disputed, although, 


REST. 


153 


for the life and soul of her, Aggie could not help 
letting fall spiteful remarks, and Maudie always had 
so many troubles and annoyances to pour into her 
sister-in-law’s ears that Midge grew quite to dread 
the sight of the well-matched bay horses coming 
prancing down the quiet road. 

And with regard to J ack, she was strangely altered. 
Prom pining and fretting about him she had un- 
consciously come to look upon him as one dead, and 
to think of herself as a widow. True, she heard 
from him at stated intervals, formal letters which had 
been overlooked by the governor and containing ab- 
solutely nothing to remind her of the Jack who had 
used to be. And so far from being joyful missives, 
Midge had grown to dread the very sight of them, 
because they must needs be answered, and she had 
no heart, no soul in answering that strange, formal 
somebody in a place which she had never seen, and 
who, it somehow seemed to her, could not he her Jack! 

Marjie was nine years old and Jack had been five 
years in prison; he was beginning to allude joyously 
to the time when he would get out with a ticket-of- 
leave and at once go out to California and make a 
new start. His letters were hopeful in tone, his 
record Midge knew was good ; he evidently firmly 
believed that once free he would soon retrieve all the 
sad and unhappy past. 

But to Midge it seemed all unreal — his letters like 
bad dreams, his projects like visions; you see, she had 
a solid, heavy duty ever present with her, and to those 
in such a case it is not easy to indulge in flights of 
fancy of a bright and glorious future. 


154 


ONLY HUMAN. 


And then, just after Marjie’s ninth birthday, Mrs. 
Broughton had another stroke, without the least 
warning or sign of unusual weakness. On the whole, 
indeed, they had fancied her better and brighter ; she 
had shared in all Marjie’s birthday pleasure, had 
drunk a glass of wine to her health and happiness, 
and tasted a crumb of the birthday-cake, had turned 
out her jewel-box to find a pretty true-lover knot of 
turquoises, and had given her a sovereign with which 
to buy herself a big doll, and had bidden her always 
remember when she grew a big girl and was twice 
nine years old that her granny had loved her dearly 
and wished her always to be loving and good to the 
dearest little mother any little girl had ever had. 

And within one short week the quiet, insidious foe 
had crept upon her, and without effort, without 
struggle, Annabel Broughton slipped quietly out of 
all her troubles and was at rest forever. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


mrs. Broughton’s will. 

In due time Mrs. Broughton was laid beside her 
husband, and her family gathered together to hear 
the will read by Mr. Argent. 

It was simple, clear, concise, and was dated three 
days after the evening that Jack Broughton had been 
arrested for the defalcations for which he still lay in 
prison. 

“Before I read the will,” said Mr. Argent, “I 
should like to say that I had a long interview with my 
late and respected client the day following that on 
which her eldest son was arrested. Mrs. Broughton 
made her will so as to be a provision in case the worst 
befell him, as it eventually did. Since then some 
question has been raised to me of whether her mental 
condition was such as would justify me in receiving 
instructions to make a new will. This fact makes 
me wish to say that I considered at all times that 
Mrs. Broughton was perfectly capable of directing her 
affairs and of making a will. She never wished to 
do that, however, though she added a codicil some 
zime after the will was made, merely one, amply 
justified by the circumstances which existed in the 
house about that time.” 

Then he read the will with all its legal preambles 
155 


156 


ONLY HUMAN. 


and its formal phraseology, the gist of which was 
about as follows : 

“ To my dear daughter-in-law, Mary Broughton, 
wife of John Broughton, I give the sum of one thou- 
sand pounds absolutely, to do with as she will. Also 
the sum of fifteen thousand pounds to be held in 
trust for Mary Broughton’s use, with reversion to any 
child or children of my son, John Broughton. This, 
which is a somewhat large share of my property, I 
bequeath thus that I may show my appreciation of 
my son and daughter-in-law’s invariable kindness to 
and affection for me, and also because my son John 
did materially help me in the time of his prosperity, 
being ever and at all times the best of sons toward 
me. 

“To my youngest son, Philip, I leave absolutely 
the sum of five thousand pounds; to each of my 
daughters, Agnes Lawrence, wife of Edward Law- 
rence, and Maud Oathcart, wife of Herbert Cathcart, 
I leave two thousand pounds, they being well pro- 
vided for by their marriage settlements. To my 
daughter Florence I leave four thousand pounds; to 
each servant who has been over two years in my 
service, fifty pounds. And to my dear little 
granddaughter, Marjory Broughton, the sum of one 
hundred pounds, the interest of which is to be given 
to her on her birthday each year, and the whole 
when she attains the age of twenty-one years. To 
my old friend, David Argent, one hundred pounds, 
and to my kind friend, Dr. Norman Aynesworth, 
the like sum. 

“ I appoint my daughter-in-law, Mary Broughton, 


MRS. BROUGHTON’S WILL. 157 

and my friend, David Argent, my executors, and 
Mary Broughton to he my residuary legatee.” 

Then came the codicil to which Mr. Argent had 
referred; this revoked a previous legacy to George 
Broughton, and left him for life the interest on two 
thousand pounds, to be paid weekly. 

As Mr. Argent finished speaking, George Brough- 
ton rose from his chair with a white face and shaking 
limbs. 

“It’s a dastardly shame,” he blurted out, “and I 
know whom I’ve got to thank for it. Yes, I know,” 
looking at Midge, “you little devil.” 

In an instant, Phil, Mr. Argent, and three other 
men were on their feet, and in less time than it takes 
me to write the words George was simply bundled 
neck and crop out of the house. 

“Don’t upset yourself about it, Midge,” remarked 
Flossie, with fine scorn ; “ it’s quite the sort of thing 
our delightful brother would do. For my part, I 
can’t say too much how I feel that dear mother has 
done exactly what is just and right. I knew she 
would do. For myself I think that Midge has earned 
every penny she has got, and that we should all of 
us be very much obliged to her for the years of devo- 
tion she has given to our mother.” 

In the face of Mr. Argent’s remarks and knowledge 
of the past Mrs. Lawrence had no choice but to 
acquiesce in what her sister had said, and all the 
others followed suit, and then the two men, who, as 
men always do, hated funerals, began to fidget about 
and look at their wives, making furtive signals that 
it was time they might be getting away. 


158 


ONLY HUMAN. 


Mrs. Cathcart was the first to perceive her hus- 
band’s imploring looks, and said in a tone as if she 
had just made a new discovery: “Well, I think we 
might he going now. I feel dreadfully overdone and 
shall he thankful for an hour’s rest.” 

“ Yes,” rejoined Mrs. Lawrence, rising with the air 
of a martyr, “ this is no place for us now.” 

“ Oh, Aggie!” cried Midge, deeply hurt. 

“Oh! I don’t feel that at all,” said Maudie coolly. 
“ I feel it just as much of a place for me as ever it 
was. I never did come here to have an hour’s rest, 
and I don’t feel inclined to do so now. Midge, my 
dear, you’ll come upstairs with me to put my bonnet 
on, won’t you?” 

“ Of course,” rejoined Midge, gratefully. 

So the four went upstairs together to Midge’s bed- 
room. Aggie looked round at the handsome furniture 
with a sigh and a sniff. 

“This used to be our best spare-room suite,” she 
said m a lachrymose voice. “ I must say, Midge, you 
have contrived to do very well for yourself.” 

“I did not do for myself at all!” cried Midge in- 
dignantly. “ Mrs. Broughton made that will from a 
strict sense of justice, for Jack was a good son to her; 
he was a good brother to all of you — nobody can deny 
it, you least of all. I had done nothing for my 
mother-in-law when she made that will, nothing, and 
what I did after I did from a sense of duty and of 
affection, too. You know that. And you know that 
if you had a different man to Mr. Argent to deal 
with you would try to take this provision from me, 
although you are rolling in riches. You grudge me 


MRS. BROUGHTON’S WILL. 


159 


even this little bit of good fortune. Oh, Aggie, 
how can you !” 

“ Hoity-toity !” cried Aggie irritatingly. “ There’s 
no need to say much. However, I’m not going to 
quarrel with you, Midge; I have to do my duty to 
my poor brother’s child, and I mean to look after 
her, I assure you.” 

For a moment Midge was too stunned by this last 
and most supreme piece of impertinence to answer. 
It was indeed Flossie who broke in with an air of 
profound disgust : 

“ Don’t answer her, Midge; don’t let her ‘rise’ you 
like that, it isn’t worth it. Don’t take any notice.” 

“I do think,” said Maud, pinning a strip of 
thin crape over her face, “ I do think that you might, 
at least, try to keep from bickering and sneering 
when our poor mother has but a few hours been 
carried out of the house. For my part, Midge, I 
don’t grudge you a penny of your share. I always 
hoped mother would do something -of the kind — and 
she did. Our mother was a just woman, and I’m 
glad she left this last just act behind her. I hope 
jou have many happy days in store, my dear, and 
that when poor Jack is free again you’ll both have 
health and happiness to enjoy them.” 

Poor Midge, who was very easily touched by a word 
of kindness, broke down at once and began to sob. 
“There, there,” said Maudie kindly — Maudie was 
always kind and sisterly to Midge when Aggie was 
there — “ we will be going and leave you to rest a little. 
Flossie, are you coming now?” 

“No, I’m going to stay to dinner with Midge,” 


160 


ONLY HUMAN. 


Flossie answered. “ I told them at home I would. I 
think it’s dreadful everybody going away and leaving 
a poor little woman alone by hersell Yes, I’m going 
to stay.” 

“ Oh, Flossie, how good you are !” Midge whispered. 

She was not therefore left alone until bedtime, 
alone to think over the wonderful change that had 
once more come into her life. She had not thought 
that her mother-in-law would make such generous 
provision for her. How kind she had always been; 
how thoughtful for her and Marjie, and for that 
future to which Midge had sometimes found herself 
looking forward with a feeling of dread! For in 
leaving her one thousand pounds to do with absolutely 
as she would Midge knew perfectly well just what 
had been in her mind, knew that it had been so left 
as a provision which would be ready to start Jack in 
a new life when be should be at liberty once more. 

A strange tumult of feelings had possession of her. 
She was torn between this new sense that freedom had 
come at last, that she was and would be dependent 
on no one’s favor, that she and the child could go and 
come as she thought most fit," none daring to make her 
afraid,” and between a longing for Jack such as she 
had not known of late and a kind of feeling that she 
was disloyal to the dead woman who had been her 
best friend, in anticipating her freedom with such a 
sense of delightful relief. 

She was not really so ; she had faithfully and with 
love done all that lay in human power to prolong 
that frail and uncertain life. She knew that she had 
nothing — nothing with which to reproach herself, 


MRS. BROUGHTON’S WILL. 


161 


and yet — yet — well — she simply could not help re- 
joicing in the new and unwonted sense of freedom 
from responsibility and care, in the delightful feeling 
that, at last, after five years of what had been almost 
prison life to her, she could take Marjie and go away 
when and where and how she thought the most fit. 

11 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


BY SPECIAL INDULGENCE. 

From what Midge could hear it would certainly 
be quite three years before Jack could hope to get 
out of prison on a ticket-of-leave. She therefore 
made her plans so as to fit in with that length of 
time. The house in Brooke Gardens Mrs. Broughton 
had only held on a yearly tenancy, and Midge agreed 
with its owner that she should remain in it until the 
current year had expired. 

Afterward, she felt she would not require such a 
large house just for herself and Marjie, and indeed 
she wished to be out of it. 

The rent was very high, for it was in a good posi- 
tion, that having been a question of paramount im- 
portance to Mrs. Broughton at the time at which she 
had chosen it. To Midge position was less even than 
nothing — it was indeed more of a drawback than an 
advantage, it being infinitely preferable to her to 
live somewhere where her husband’s story was un- 
known. 

She decided, after a long talk with Mrs. Kilmaney, 
to get rid of the furniture and go abroad with Marjie. 

“ You see, dear Midge,” said that astute and vola- 
tile lady in her usual plain and outspoken fashion, 
“since Aggie has taken it into her head that her 
special mission is to look after her poor brother’s 
163 


BY SPECIAL INDULGENCE. 


163 


child your life will become a perfect burden to you 
if you remain where you are. And when poor old 
Jack gets out again he won’t want to stop here where 
everybody knows him; he’ll want to emigrate, of 
course. So you had far better break up your estab- 
lishment here while you are well and have nothing to 
fuss and worry you, and you will be free to do 
as you will then. Besides that, everything will fetch 
a better price now than in three years’ time — they 
will be three years older than they are now. And, 
meantime, if you put the money in a bank you will 
have all the more when you want to start again.” 

Midge felt that the advice was sound, and without 
consulting any one else but Mr. Argent, and telling 
Flossie what her ideas were, she quietly put aside 
such things as she wished to keep, treasures of silver, 
a few pictures and miniatures, a little old china, 
and all the linen, and ordered everything else to be 
sold. 

Mrs. Edward Lawrence raved and cried, but Midge 
was as firm as a rock, and utterly refused to change 
her plans even in the smallest degree. 

“ You’ve no right to scatter my poor mother’s 
belongings to the four winds of heaven,” she ex- 
claimed indignantly ; “ here are things in the cata- 
logue that I would have given worlds — anyihmg to 
possess. And now they will simply be thrown away.” 

“ It will be quite easy to buy them in,” said Midge 
quietly, “ especially if they are to be thrown away. 
You won’t have the nuisance of being beholden to 
any one else for them.” 

“ You have no right to do it,” Aggie pursued, “ no 


164 


ONLY HUMAN. 


moral right, though you have the legal power, I sup- 
pose.” 

“ I have every right, in Jack’s absence, to do the 
best that I possibly can both for our child and to 
make the best arrangement in my power for his mak- 
ing a fresh start,” said Midge firmly. “ In any case, 
whether I am right or wrong does not matter to 
you.” 

“ It is my duty to look after my poor brother’s 
child,” Aggie began, but Midge stopped her before 
she could finish the sentence. 

“Stop!” she said; “once for all, Aggie, you have 
no duty with regard to my child. When you might 
have been a little kind to your poor brother’s child 
you carefully were nothing of the kind. You 
wouldn’t even care enough whether she lived or died 
to warn me that she might get the measles from you. 
When Jack comes home again don’t you go bleating 
to him about your duty and all that rubbish. And 
don’t give me your opinion about how I manage my 
business, because I w r on’t have it.” 

Oh, she was so anxious to be away from London 
and out of it all, to feel that she was really free, with 
no fear of such visits as Aggie’s always were! 

She went for the first time to see Jack, and by the 
special leave of the governor of the prison, who liked 
Jack and pitied the pretty-pale, fair little wife with 
all his heart, she was allowed to spend an hour with 
him in the governor’s house without supervision, only 
giving her word that she would give him no weapon 
or poison, nothing contraband, in fact. 

“I know you won’t,” the good-natured old soldier 


BY SPECIAL INDULGENCE. 


165 


said kindly, “ but I must have the promise for form’s 
sake.” 

“ I am quite willing to be searched,” she said, half 
way between tears and laughter; “I’ll submit cheer- 
fully to anything if it will satisfy you.” 

“No, no, I’ll trust you,” he said rather huskily, 
and then he took her hand for a moment and looked 
at her doubtfully. “ You haven’t seen your husband 
since he’s been here?” 

“Not once,” answered Midge. She was trembling 
at the thought of seeing him now. 

“ You’ll not expect — that is — he’ll be in prison 
clothes, you know” — doubtfully — “ it’s not pretty, 
exactly, you know — I dare say you’l see a change, 
but ” 

“But I don’t mind about that,” she cried with 
feverish eagerness. “And, Captain Holford, I do 
think it so kind of you to let me see him by myself. 
I shall never, never forget it. Believe me, I never 
shall.” 

“ Oh ! well — it is a little stretch, perhaps, but I do 
allow it now and then when a man has kept straight 
and all right. There — I’ll go now — you’ll only have 
to wait a few minutes.” 

He pressed her hand and went out of the room. 
Midge’s excitement increased with every breath she 
drew. Oh, how long it seemed, how long! She 
could not sit still on her chair, but got up and walked 
to the window, though she was shaking in every limb 
and her heart jumped and throbbed painfully at every 
sound in the crisp winter air, at sounds indeed which 
had no existence except in her own overstrained fancy. 


166 


ONLY HUMAN. 


At last, however, she heard footsteps in the hall 
without, the unmistakable tramp of men’s feet. 
Then the door was flung open and a man walked into 
the room ! 

For a second or two Midge hung hack. Could that 
he Jack, her Jack? This big bronzed giant with his 
lithe limbs clad in hideous striped garments, with 
hare throat and work-worn hands, with face clean- 
shaven and his curly hair shorn close like a sheep in 
early summer — could this he Jack? 

“ Midge!” he said, half hesitatingly. “ Midge!” 

Yes, the shaven face, the shorn head, the bronzed 
look of an out-door life, the roughened hands, the 
frightfully hideous garments, they were all new and 
strange to her, but the voice was Jack’s voice, the 
eyes were Jack’s eyes, and they laughed still in spite 
of everything. Yes, it was her Jack, and she ran to 
him and flung herself upon him, kissing him between 
her sobs and then laughing hysterically. 

“Midge — Midge — my love — my darling — you’re 
not altered!” he cried, almost beside himself with the 
awful revulsion of feeling with which he had realized 
that he was everything to her still. “Dear little 
sweetheart, I’ve thought so long that my miserable 
folly had come in between us and that you would 
never take me back to your heart again, never. 
Darling, darling, you don’t know what it is to me 
after all these years to feel that you do love me after 
all; I can bear anything now that you have come to 
see me.” 

For a long time she could not speak, but lay resting 
her head on his shoulder, trying hard to control her 


BY SPECIAL INDULGENCE. 


167 


sobs. She forgot that the precious moments were 
flying by and could never be brought back again ; 
that very soon the summons would come for Jack, 
and he would have to go back to his cruel life after 
his one short glimpse into Paradise. At last, how- 
ever, she was able to speak. 

“ I couldn’t come, Jack,” she said. “ Your mother 
wouldn’t let me leave her for a single day — and — and 
— I got to feel somehow — as if you weren’t here at 
all, as if I should never see you again, as if — as if 
you were dead, Jack.” 

The words came out in a sort of wail ; all her cold 
resolution and hardness seemed to have melted away 
and she was once again the loving, confiding Midge, 
who wanted something to lean on, some one to love 
her and make much of her. 

It was a very precious hour, and the governor, to 
whose heart Midge’s pale face had gone, was very 
good to them ; he let them stay in his wife’s pretty 
drawing-room much longer than even she had ex- 
pected, and although there was a warder keeping his 
eye on the window and another stationed in the hall 
all the time, yet Jack and Midge were together again, 
if only for a little time in person, yet in heart for 
always. 

And if the truth be told life became a new thing 
to Jack Broughton from that hour. For a long time 
past Midge’s letters had been cold and constrained, 
as a woman’s letters would be written under such cir- 
cumstances and in the knowledge that they would be 
read by other eyes before Jack’s, and possibly that 
they might never reach him at all. And Jack, never 


168 


ONLY HUMAN. 


thinking of the reason of this, had got to think that 
Midge was lost to him forever, that when he should 
find himself free again he would have to begin a new 
life without the wife he had loved so fondly and so 
unwisely, for whose sweet sake he had sinned and 
suffered all these many years! 

He asked very few questions — one or two about 
Marjie and one or two about his mother’s illness and 
death. It seemed enough for him to have Midge 
beside him; he was never tired of looking at her and 
comparing her with what she had been in the old 
days. 

“You are much lovelier than you were, darling,” 
he said, holding her face by the chin; “ but there, I 
ought not to venture to touch you — my hands are 
not fit to touch a lady’s face now.” 

He held out his hands to show their roughened 
state, and Midge, with a cry full of love, caught 
them in her soft and slender fingers, and bending 
her face over them covered them with passionate 
kisses. 

“ Don’t,” said Jack, biting his under lip hard for 
a minute, “ don’t, Midge — I can't stand it!” 

It was hard to control herself, to keep herself in 
check, but Midge had learned in the “ school of an- 
guish” how to endure, and she pulled herself together 
that she might save him an extra pang of pain if that 
were possible. She told him all her plans for the 
future, told him how there would be provision for 
him to make a fresh start and a certain income 
always. All that was good she told him, all that was 
disagreeable she kept to herself, thinking that his lot 


BY SPECIAL INDULGENCE. 


169 


was hard enough to hear without having the knowl- 
edge of Aggie’s unkindness to worry him or the 
shortcomings of the others to brood over. 

“Jack,” she said at last, “have you thought about 
what you’ll do when you get out of this? Have you 
formed any plans for the future?” 

“Why, my darling,” he said, “ I’ve thought of 
nothing else. I know exactly what I’m going to do. 
There are clever fellows in here, and the man I like 
best, who got let in through his brother’s blundering, 
has put me up to a splendid way of making a real 
good thing once I am out.” 

“And not with him?” asked Midge, anxiously. 

“Not with anybody — just you and I and the child, 
darling,” he answered tenderly. “ And now that I’m 
sure of you I don’t mind waiting a bit, not a little 
bit; you are and always have been everything that I 
care for most on earth. ” 

And then the summons came, a sharp, imperative 
knock upon the door, to which Jack called out just 
in his old careless voice: “All right — coming!” 

“ I must go,” he said. “ Good-by, my darling. God 
bless you and keep you. Don’t worry about me — I 
don’t mind waiting a bit.” 

He kissed her again and again and tore himself 
away. Midge fell back upon the sofa, and, hiding her 
face among the cushions, sobbed as if her heart would 
break. And so the governor found her when he 
came ; he stood for an instant, looking at her in dis- 
may, then went out of the room and fetched his wife, 
who came and petted her and made much of her, giv- 
ing her tea and promising her that she would use her 


170 


ONLY HUMAN. 


influence with the governor to get Jack some indul- 
gences such as would make the time go by sooner. 

“But,” she whispered, “not a word to him or I 
shall get into hot water and do no good, but rather 
harm. Still 1 know how to manage it, and I prom- 
ise to do all I can,” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


WANDERERS. 

When Midge had disposed of the house in Brooke 
Gardens she and Marjie went abroad accompanied 
only by old nurse, who declined to be parted from 
her and was not even daunted by the prospect of, as 
she put it, “ ending her days among foreign people 
too ignorant to speak the Queen’s English.” 

They wandered out of the beaten track, going 
toward the south, and very pleasantly a couple of 
years went by. Marjie spoke French like a native, 
Midge very well indeed, and even nurse picked up 
enough to make herself understood and to buy the 
vegetables and other food in the market-place of 
whatever town they happened to be in. Sometimes 
they stayed in quiet inns, old-fashioned hostelries 
where English ladies were rare visitors and English 
children almost unknown. 

And every day brought them nearer and nearer to 
that great day of rejoicing when Jack should be free, 
when they should all go away to a new country to 
make a new home and begin a fresh start together. 

At this time Midge was terribly exercised in her 
mind about Marjie. Marjie was eleven years old now 
and she knew nothing, absolutely nothing, about her 
father’s story. 

Midge, naturally enough, did not wish her to know 
171 


172 


ONJjY human. 


it. She had purposely prevented her making friends 
of English children lest she might learn it in some 
roundabout way from them. She had not often 
spoken of Jack lest the child might ask awkward 
questions about him, questions which she would be 
utterly unable to answer truthfully. And now 
Midge felt that she was face to face with a great 
difficulty, for the time was fast coming when Jack 
would be free and Marjie would have to receive some 
explanation of her father’s existence and of the reason 
why he had not been with them during all these 
years. 

“ Mother,” she asked one day in a thoughtful tone, 
“you’re not a widow, are you?” 

“No, dear,” Midge replied; her heart began to 
beat faster. Was Marjie going to ask that question 
which somehow or other would have to be answered? 

“ Because my father is living?” 

“Yes, dear.” 

“H’m!” said Marjie reflectively, then looked up 
at her mother. “ Where is my father?” 

“ He is away, dear.” 

“ Yes — I know that — but where?” 

For a moment Midge did not speak. “ Marjie,” 
she said at last, “ I have never told you before because 
you were too little to understand exactly. Your 
father was once very well off — rich indeed, but every- 
thing did not go very well with him and we had to 
give up our house and go to live with granny. And 
your father ” 

“ Yes — my father ” echoed Marjie, finding that 

her mother paused. 


WANDERERS. 


173 


“Well, he had to go away — to — to try to do bet- 
ter, that is, till better times came. Do you under- 
stand?’ 

“Well, no, I don’t exactly,” said Marjie frankly. 
“Did you quarrel with my father, then?” 

“Quarrel? Oh! my darling, no — never!” Midge 
cried. “ What could have put such an idea into your 
head?” 

“ Well, Mathilde said yesterday that you must either 
he a widow or have quarrelled with my father ; that 
when ladies had little girls and no husbands they 
always were widows or had quarrelled.” 

“ Mathilde talks of what she does not understand,” 
said Midge severely. “ Your father will be coming 
home soon, and you will love him as you used to do 
when you were little.” 

“Shall I? What is he like, mother?” the child 
asked. 

Midge described Jack as she had last seen him ; in- 
deed she went further and read the child part of his 
last letter, which was full of love and hope and eager 
anticipation of the immediate future, or what seemed 
immediate to one who had waited nearly eight years 
for his freedom ! 

“ And where is he?” said Marjie, who was very full 
of this new subject of interest. 

“ Marjie, darling, you would not know the name of 
the place if I told you,” said Midge, trying to fence 
the question. 

“ But I do want to know,” said Marjie persistently. 

Midge saw that it was useless to try to get out of it. 

“ He is quite near to a place which they call ‘The 


174 


ONLY HUMAN. 


Verne,’ ” she said, hoping devoutedly that this cate- 
chism had almost come to an end. 

“The Verne! Is it in South America?” asked 
Marjie. She was particularly fond of geography, and 
to her ears it had the sound of a mountain or gorge 
or something of that kind. 

“Marjie dearest,” said Midge at last, “don’t ask 
me any more questions; I have such a headache.” 

That was enough; the torment was stepped for that 
day, though there was no knowing how soon, with the 
help of Matliilde’s inquisitive mind, it might not be 
let loose again. And a week later they moved on 
and went over the border into Italy. Midge had long 
wished to see Genoa, the beautiful, and Marjie was 
passionately fond of seeing the places she had read of 
in her geography books, and never suspected that her 
little French friend Mathilde had had more than a 
hand in winning her that particular pleasure. From 
Genoa they went to Florence, and from Florence to 
Venice, slowly journeying through the sunny Bhine- 
land to Ostend, where Midge established Marjie and 
nurse in a snug little lodging and returned to Eng- 
land alone. Marjie was full of wonder at this pro- 
ceeding. 

“ Yes, I know you’re going to meet father,” she 
said, “ but why mayn’t I come too?” 

“ Because we shall have a great deal to do, and it 
will be very stuffy and hot in London, and because, 
as soon as possible, we shall come to you,” Midge 
replied. 

Now Midge could be very firm. She had not suc- 
cessfully done battle with her sisters-in-law and other 


WANDERERS. 


175 


people to give in weakly to a child, although she 
worshipped the very ground on which that child 
trod, and life would not have been worth living with- 
out her. 

Again she made her way to the prison, but oh ! 
with what different feelings, for the time of waiting 
had come to an end, and her Jack was going to be 
with her always now. 

It was surprising with what calmness she thought 
of the past! Jack’s shortcomings did not trouble 
her ; she never associated him in her mind with any- 
thing so sinful as theft, she never thought of him as 
a convict. Oh ! no, rather as having just returned 
from some foreign country after an absence purely 
voluntary. It was so different from what she had ex- 
pected ! In those past wretched days, when she was 
almost as much a prisoner as he was, she had some- 
times wondered how it would be between them if he 
should ever be free again. 

She had fancied with dread that there would 
always be a constraint between them, always that one 
subject of which they would never speak, although 
each would perhaps be burning to do so. She had 
often thought that the old careless freedom and hap- 
piness of perfect good-fellowship between them could 
never come back any more, that she would never be 
able to trust him again, but would always be watch- 
ing for another arrest. And in reality it was all so 
different. 

They were so good to her at the house of the gov- 
ernor, to whose wife she had brought several little 
souvenirs of her sojourn abroad — two quaint little 


176 


ONLY HUMAN. 


silver boxes from Holland, a set of glasses from Venice, 
and an old intaglio from Florence. And then she 
waited till Jack was ready to go. 

The governor’s wife left her alone in the room 
where she had first seen Jack when she guessed he 
would he coming. So Midge was alone when he came 
in, no longer a sparsely-clad giant in hideous striped 
garments, hut a tall, handsome man in London 
clothes, a little old-fashioned and decidedly tight, it 
is true, yet looking every inch a gentleman, and as 
handsome under his bronze as a soldier just home 
from India might do. His hair had been allowed to 
grow somewhat and was quite presentable enough, 
and it suited him to be clean-shaven. 

“ I shall feel very queer in a tall hat when I get to 
town,” he said, with a laugh; he was so gay, just like 
a school-boy going home for the holidays. 

“I suppose we must go to town?” said Midge; the 
poor girl rather shrank from that ordeal. 

“Well, I cannot go about in these garments,” re- 
joined Jack, with a laugh, “ at least, not to do you 
credit, you know. Oh ! yes, let us get to town to- 
night, and have a good dinner to -begin with. By 
the way, where’s the child?” 

“ I left her at Ostend.” 

“ Ah ! that was good. By the bye, does she know 
anything?” 

“Oh, Jack, not a word, not a breath! She must 
never know !” Midge cried anxiously. 

“ Well, of course, it isn’t a thing one would be 
aching to inform her of,” returned Jack, still laugh- 
ing. 


WANDERERS. 


177 


They bade farewell to Portland and all connected 
therewith, as Jack frankly said he hoped forever, 
and drove down to the station ; for they were going 
straight to London. And when they got to London 
Jack put himself into evening clothes for the mere 
pleasure of feeling himself dressed like a gentleman 
again, and they went off to enjoy their first dinner 
together like two gay and happy children. 

Little wonder that the waiters took them for bride 
and groom, and waited on them with sympathy and 
in expectation of a .big tip, of which they were not 
disappointed. And in the morning Jack went to a 
tailor’s and ordered himself a proper assortment of 
clothes, telling the tailor in a casual off-hand way 
that he had been out of the reach of a decent tailor 
for some time past. 

“Been abroad, I suppose, sir?” said the tailor 
blandly. 

“Regularly roughing it,” said Jack, throwing up 
his chin. 

'You*couldn’t help liking him; the tailor did, and 
would indeed have been very angry if any one had 
dared to insinuate that his new customer had come 
out of Portland only the previous day. And just as 
Jack’s happy-go-lucky spirit and easy manner put 
him at ease with all the world, so did it put him im- 
mediately at ease with his wife, who felt no more 
awkwardness about the situation than she had done 
at the time of her marriage. 

After the first few hours her dread of meeting old 
friends began to wear off; for one thing, Jack was 
perfectly indifferent and unconcerned about it; after 
12 


178 


ONLY HUMAN. 


eight years of Portland he did not in the 'least care 
whether he was recognized or not ; he was free and 
with Midge again, and the past therefore troubled 
him very little. 

His meeting with the child — which Midge had 
feared most of all — was as characteristic as his 
meeting with old nurse, whom, he had utterly for- 
gotten. 

“ Marjie — darling — you remember me — I’ve been a 
long time away, but I hope I shall never have to go 
away again. Why,” with a sudden change of tone, 
“why, nurse, is that you? ’Pon my word, I’d for- 
gotten I should find you here. How are you?” 

Old nurse dropped a courtesy. Jack held out his 
hand, and the situation, which might have been one 
of extreme awkwardness, passed over as easily as if he 
had but been to Paris for a week. 

“I hope you’re well, sir,” said the old woman re- 
spectfully. 

“Oh! yes, thanks, nurse,” he answered. “Very 
glad to be back again; I’ve had scant comfort since 
I left home.” 

“ Why — were there bears, father?” asked Marjie. 
Marjie, who could scarcely remember him, had taken 
to him at first sight. 

“ Bears, no ; there were no bears, but the food was 
beastly, and the beds were hard, and — and — I never 
want to go back again.” 

“ I should think not, sir,” said nurse dryly, whereat 
Jack Broughton laughed so long and so heartily that 
Midge came in to see what was going on, and found 
the three laughing, one against the other, as merrily 


WANDERERS. 


179 


as if trouble had never come near any one of 
them. 

“ I like my father,” said Marjie to her mother that 
night; “he’s quite lovely — andswcAfun! Will he 
always stay with us now, do you think, Midge?” 

Midge caught the child to her and stopped her 
mouth with kisses, “ Oh, yes, dear, yes,” she cried, 
“ always — always!” 


CHAPTER XXV. 


TOGETHER AGAIN. 

There was not a single soul whom they knew in 
Ostend, so they lingered there a while contentedly 
enough. After his long years of privation and hard 
work Jack Broughton wanted a holiday ; as he said 
more than once to Midge, he wanted to get thoroughly 
used to the feel of a gentleman’s clothes before he set 
out to conquer fortune again. And Midge was noth- 
ing loath. She had scarcely even dared to dream that 
such happiness could again come to her as when she 
sat in the blazing sunshine on the beach, with Jack, 
her handsome husband, in hfs flannels and tweed 
jacket lying beside her, and Marjie and nurse some- 
where near at hand. It was like Elysium to the little 
woman who had felt like Hagar among her husband’s 
people, and she more than once found herself wish- 
ing, ay, and saying, that it could go on forever. 

But Jack had no fancy for a thoroughly idle life. 
As he always answered her at such times, let him 
have a few weeks’ idleness and then he must be up 
and doing. 

“ Sit down at my age, Midge, on four or five 
hundred a year? Oh! my dear, I couldn’t!” he said. 
“ No, we’ll enjoy ourselves here till my news comes 
from the land of silver and ‘ile,’ and then the sooner 
180 


TOGETHER AGAIN. 


181 


we are off the better. I want to make Marjie the 
greatest heiress of the day, and I believe it can be 
done and that I’m on the right road to doing it.” 

And on the whole Midge did not care very much, 
one way or the other ; so long as they were together 
she was content and happy, and she knew that in any 
case Marjie’s future was fairly safe, that there would 
always be a sufficient income on which she could live 
in comfort, if not in luxury. So she sat contentedly 
listening to Jack’s brilliant dreams of a future which 
should be all roses and sunshine and unparalleled 
success. And if she did not actually share in those 
bright visions herself she at least did not damp the 
ardor with which he believed in them, and for Jack, 
at that time, such a fact meant everything that was 
good and encouraging. 

At last, he got the expected letter from the un- 
known friend in San Francisco to whom his chum in 
Portland had given him a password of introduction. 
And although its contents were as hidden in meaning 
as Greek to Midge, he declared that they must go at 
once, and the sooner the better. 

They were soon back in London again and com- 
fortably installed in a boarding-house in Bloomsbury. 
There was a houseful of strangers, all more or less 
birds of passage like themselves, men and women of 
all nationalities. Among such as these Midge felt 
that they were perfectly safe from observation, and 
threw herself, heart and soul, into all Jack’s plans 
and for providing for all likely requirements. 

“You’re quite sure you’d like to go, nurse?” said 
Jack doubtfully, the day after Midge had told him of 


182 


ONLY HUMAN. 


the old woman’s determination not to be parted from 
Marjie. 

“ Quite sure, sir,” said nurse promptly. 

“ It’s a new country, you know, and we’re going to 
rough it,” he said warningly. “You won’t find 
everything comfortable and to your hand as things 
are here.” 

“ What my dear young mistress can put up with 
will be good enough for me, sir,” she said firmly. 
“ You see, sir, I’m not dead old, though I’m not so 
young as I was once. I haven’t a relation in all the 
world, and Miss Marjie is the very light and joy of 
my eyes. I couldn’t part from Miss Marjie — it would 
kill me.” 

“ I don’t want to kill you, nurse,” he said, laugh- 
ing; “ not a bit of it; I only want you to have a clear 
idea of what you are going to, that’s all.” 

“I’ll go, whatever it is and wherever it is,” re- 
turned nurse, with a comprehensive gesture, “ and 
there’s just one thing I should like to have with me — 
that is, if we are going into the backwoods — that is 
a medicine chest, so as I can doctor my blessed lamb 
if needful.” 

“ All right, nurse,” Jack returned cheerfully; “ I’ll 
see after that for you.” 

Now when Jack and his wife came to talk money 
matters over he found that she had done well by the 
money which had come into her care. 

“ You see, there is the thousand pounds that your 
dear mother left me,” Midge explained, “that’s one 
thousand, and the interest on that for three years, 
one hundred and thirty pounds. Get a bit of paper 


TOGETHER AGAIN. 


183 


and put it down, Jack. And five hundred pounds 
I saved up ” 

“ How the deuce did you do it?” Jack blurted out. 

“Well,” she said modestly, “ Marjie and I are not 
very expensive people to keep, and I had an object, 
you know. It’s so much easier to save money when 
you have an object.” 

“Was I your object?” he asked tenderly. “Oh! 
my darling, my brave little love, I will make up to 
you for the past, some day, see if I don’t.” 

“You never uttered a wrong word to me, Jack,” 
she said simply. 

“But others did — Aggie, to wit,” he rejoined 
quickly, for she had since his release told him of many 
of the battles she had fought with Aggie and the 
others. 

“Oh! well, that’s all over now; I’ve got you to 
fight my battles again, I don’t mind any thing now!” 
she cried. “ But now to our figures. Then I sold 
my diamonds.” 

“Your diamonds?” in surprise. 

“Well, you see your mother thought they could 
ask for them if they wanted them, but they never did. 
And as Sir James got all his belongings back and 
really everybody w r as paid up, I didn’t think I need 
say anything about them. But I sold them after 
your mother’s death; I got fifteen hundred pounds 
for them. And there was the interest on that — -that 
was a hundred and fifty pounds. And then I had the 
residue of the estate — that was five hundred. Now, 
what does that all come to?” 

“ To three thousand seven hundred and eighty 


184 


ONLY HUMAN. 


pounds. And there’s your income to the good,” he 
replied. “ By Jove ! Midge, but you’re the cleverest 
as well as the prettiest woman I know!” 

Of course, it was but a small capital with which to 
start on a new life on a perfectly new venture ; but 
Jack had got certain information concerning a tract 
of land which Esmond, his chum in Portland, had 
declared to be teeming with silver, and in answer to 
his message Esmond’s chum in San Erancisco had 
sent him a sealed packet, which contained rough 
maps and plans of the district, with fullest informa- 
tion how to get a concession thereof. 

“ I have bargained with Esmond to lay aside a third 
of everything for him ; he won’t be out for three 
years yet,” he explained to Midge, “ and that is only 
a fair share for his letting me into such a good 
thing.” 

“ But won’t you want a great deal of money to work 
it?” she asked anxiously. 

“ Not a bit of it ; Esmond says the silver is lying in 
great chunks,” Jack answered enthusiastically. “ So 
to speak, you know, so to speak. By Jove! Midge, 
it’s a chance a man doesn’t often get hold of!” 

“We shall see,” said Midge, smiling. 

“ If I find it all as Esmond says I shall start a 
company at once; it’s all easy enough when once 
you’ve got possession of the land.” 

“ But why didn’t Esmond buy it, then?” 

“ Because he had no money, and he did not dare 
trust in any of the loan people out there — they’d have 
done him as sure as eggs if he had. He came home 
to get it, and was unfortunate enough to get into 


TOGETHER AGAIN. 


185 


trouble, which, all said and done, wasn’t really his 
fault, poor chap.” 

A sudden thought flashed into Midge’s mind that 
Esmond had had a great deal of confidence to trust 
his secret to Jack, who had actually got into “ trouble” 
for betraying a trust of the same kind. “ Jack,” she 
said, “ if things go well, you will keep faith with this 
Esmond?” 

“That I will,” he answered. “Midge, my dear, 
don’t let that idea live in your mind for one minute. 
I’ve had my lesson, and a precious hard ‘impo’ it 
was. But never a step out of the straight road for 
me in future — that I promise you.” 

She moved toward him and twined her arm around 
his neck. “Dear Jack,” she said, “such a thought 
did come into my mind for a minute, only for a 
minute, though. You have made me very happy. I 
feel afraid of nothing; the future all looks as bright 
as summer sunshine now, and I love you more dearly 
than ever, perhaps because I never knew how much I 
loved you till I had lost you for a time. I can even 
forgive Aggie for all her tempers and sneers now — I 
forgive everybody every thing — except one,” she added 
thoughtfully. 

“ And that one?” he asked. 

“ Is Sir James Craddock — Lord Esseldine of Essel- 
dine,” she answered. “ I shall always hate him as you 
do hate the man who hits you when you are down, ' 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


LOS ANDKE. 

Time flies; it was nearly six years since Jack 
Broughton and his wife had left Old England to seek 
a better fortune and a new life in a new country ! 

And they had found it! From the day that they 
first set foot on Los Andre everything had gone well 
with them. Jack Broughton counted his fortune by 
millions, and Marjie was one of the richest heiresses 
in America. 

The mansion at Los Andr6 was a dream of beauty 
and luxurious comfort, and was situated in a specially 
lovely part of the valley wherein their estate lay. As 
far as was possible* it was laid out after the plan of an 
English country-house, with beautiful gardens, ter- 
races of white marble, and broad flights of steps. A 
lake partly overhung by trees gleamed at the end of 
one pretty walk, and there were enough fish in its 
waters and enough wild duck and tame on them to 
give sport, and good sport, too, to the visitors at Los 
Andre. 

Mrs. Broughton, whom Jack still called Midge, 
was a happy woman, the envy of all her neighbors, 
the admiration of all the men in the district. She 
had not a wish ungratified that money could buy, not 
a care or an anxiety in all the world, and in all her 
186 


LOS ANDRE. 


187 


costly and luxurious couch of life there was only one 
crumpled rose-leaf to vex her soul. 

There was one — yes, there is always one in every 
one’s couch, and hers was that her Jack, handsome, 
popular, rich, and successful as he was, could not 
follow the dictates of his heart and hers and buy an 
estate over in Old England, on which he might live 
the delightful life of a wealthy English gentleman. 

Not, of course, that there was any real reason 
against it, or that Jack himself saw the smallest 
obstacle to such a course. He was rich enough to 
buy a house in town, a place in the country, a moor 
in Scotland, a hotel in Paris, a steam yacht, or any 
other luxury for which his wife might express a fancy. 
And Jack did not mind in the least whether the 
people at home remembered his story or not ; in fact, 
Jack had great faith in the fact that the past mis- 
deeds of rich people are easily forgotten and hard to 
keep in remembrance. 

But Midge was obstinate on that point. You see, 
she had not forgotten those five cruel years when her 
best friends had passed by on the other side, when 
she had been made to feel by those on whom she had 
looked down during her reign at the Monk’s House 
that she was henceforward a thing apart from them, 
that she was a person to be avoided as the pestilence, 
to be shunned as a plague. 

You cannot endure five years of this kind of life 
without having the mark of it left upon you, and in 
her case, tied down to the one neighborhood as she 
was at that time, the iron had eaten into her very 
soul, and although -sunny fortune had smiled upon 


188 


ONLY HUMAN. 


her since they had made a fresh start in the new 
country, though Jack was her lover still, and Marjie 
had thriven apace and grown into as lovely a girl as 
any woman could wish to be mother to, yet there were 
traces left still of that ghastly time of endurance, 
which even now made her shiver to think of. And 
she, for one thing, could not make up her mind to 
go back to England and run the risk of being re- 
ceived coldly and with reserve, perhaps even reminded 
of that story of Jack’s misdeeds and subsequent 
punishment. 

True, she was not cut off from her friends in the 
old country. Flossie and her husband had been out 
to Los Andre, as also had Phil, who had spent a long 
leave with them. And then, Maudie Cathcart had 
plainly hinted that they had never been asked, and 
had reminded Midge of how she had fought her 
battles with Aggie, when “ Aggie had been neither 
more nor less than a beast to her,” and Midge, not 
being revengeful or remembering how much more 
Maudie might have done to soften her lot, relented 
and invited her sister-in-law and her husband to Los 
Andre on a long autumn visit, which they accepted 
and enjoyed immensely. 

And once the Charles Kilmaneys had spent a month 
with them, and then Mrs. Kilmaney had wrung from 
Midge a promise that she would come over the follow- 
ing spring and spend a few weeks with her in Lon- 
don, and a similar length of time in Scotland. 

“ I know you’re longing to come,” she said to her 
persuasively, “and I know what makes you hold back. 
My dear, you need never think of that ; the world is 


LOS ANDRE. 


189 


very lenient, after all, and I’m sure if you had heard 
the interested way that everybody who saw the pho- 
tographs of this place asked after you, and when 
you were coming over, and if you meant to give 
Marjie a season in London, you would have felt quite 
happy about coming home again.” 

But Midge was not quite happy about it. It is 
true that she went to Europe the following spring, 
accompanied by Marjie, and that after spending three 
weeks and a great deal of money in Paris, she arrived 
at the London house of her old friend, and was soon 
the person of deepest interest in all their set; for 
everybody was anxious to see the wife and daughter 
of the man who was widely known as Broughton, the 
millionaire. 

As a matter of fact, there were very few who re- 
membered her or Jack’s story, and those who did 
were very lenient, and said in a casual kind of way, 
“ Oh, didn’t he get into some scrape or other? I 
forget quite what; wasn’t he blamed for somebody 
else or something? Well, anyway, she’s a dear little 
woman, and so chic , you know.” 

Yet, though she was made a great fuss of, Mrs. 
Jack Broughton did not enjoy that visit at all, and 
only breathed easily when she was once more on the 
great steamer which ploughed her way toward the 
continent where Jack was. So two years went by and 
Marjie was turned eighteen, when it was time, Jack 
said, to take her to London and give her a real good 
time. 

Marjie herself was very anxious to go to London 
the following spring. She had remembrances of that 


190 


ONLY HUMAN. 


visit to Mrs. Kilmaney, when, night after night, she 
had seen her mother dress and go out, blazing with 
diamonds, her pretty, fair head well in air, and that 
sad smile on her lips which had been then such a 
puzzle to the girl. If she could have known the 
tumult of feelings in her mother’s heart she would 
have understood well enough; hut of all that Marjie 
knew nothing, absolutely nothing. All that was 
dark and painful in that bitter past Midge had kept 
from her; she knew nothing of her father’s story, 
hut little of their family history, except that he had 
not succeeded very well in life until they came to Los 
Andre. She never even thought of asking him where 
he had lived during those years when he was not with 
them ; he had come home, had taken up their every- 
day life as a natural and ordinary thing, and Marjie 
had never troubled further about it. 

I can scarcely describe to you the life which this 
young girl had lived at Los Andre ; until she was 
eighteen she had always had two highly cultivated 
governesses, who between them taught her every 
necessary accomplishment. She lived like a young 
princess — a young princess in a story-book, with her 
own servants, her own apartments, her horses, ponies, 
carriages, dogs, and other pets. She was never dull, 
for there were always visitors in plenty at Los Andr£, 
and they travelled a great deal in various parts of the 
country. 

Well, it happened that in the autumn succeeding 
her eighteenth birthday Marjie received an invita- 
tion to spend a few weeks at Washington, and as she 
very much wished to go there, it was accepted. She 


LOS ANDRE 


191 


made the journey with a maid and a courier, with a 
parting present from her mother of a string of pearls 
as large as beans, and a handsome check from her 
father, with which to defray the cost of such a trip. 

“Give the servants handsome tips, darling,” said 
her mother the last thing, “ and buy Rosie Debenham 
a present or two during your stay. Be sure you take 
great care of your throat, especially after singing.” 

“Oh, I’ll take the greatest care, dearest!” cried 
Marjie, who was full of delight at the prospect of a 
long stay with her friend. 

And so they parted, the husband and wife left, for 
a wonder, by themselves in the great house of Los 
Andre. Marjie had taken her first plunge into the 
wide world alone, brimful of joy and hope as young 
things are, recking little of the future and of those 
coming events which had already cast their shadows 
before. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


“ I CALL HIM * JIM. ’ ” 

“ By Jove! it’s like a new honeymoon,” said Jack 
Broughton to his wife that evening as they sat alone 
in the lovely dining-room, lingering over dessert. 

It was a lovely room, large and lofty, painted a 
delicate green color, with a brilliant scarlet- frieze, 
below which hung paintings and choice engravings, 
trophies of arms and weapons, and a great collection 
of gilded horseshoes, which were Marjie’s especial 
pride and delight. Above the high-carved wooden 
chimney-shelf was a goodly collection of “old blue,” 
while above the old oak sideboard rose shelf after 
shelf of rare old silver, great shields and tankards, 
which gleamed brightly in the soft rays from the 
shaded swinging lamp. Perhaps the handsomest 
thing in the room was the master of the house, Jack 
Broughton himself, as he sat at the dainty table, big, 
bronze, and healthy, a successful man in the very 
prime of life, looking, as he was, as happy as a king 
is supposed to feel. But to Jack the most fair and 
lovely thing that room, the house, the whole world 
contained was sitting opposite to him, his wife, 
Midge ! 

Time had dealt very gently with her. She was 
fast nearing forty now, at least she was turned thirty- 
eight years old, and, judging only from her looks, she 
192 


I CALL HIM ‘JIM.’” 


193 


might have been five or six years younger than that. 
Being so small and so fair she looked hut little over 
thirty. She still had the same cloud of lovely fair 
hair, soft and feathery as thistle-down, her face was 
perhaps a little rounder in contour; hut that had not 
made her look older, her skin was fine and clear, like 
the fine, healthy skin of a beautiful child, and her 
eyes, always her greatest beauty, were more like a 
dove’s breast in tint than ever. The whiteness of her 
throat was enhanced by the black gown of filmy lace 
which she wore, and on one side of the square-cut 
bodice one diamond star glittered and scintillated 
brightly. 

“It’s like a new honeymoon,” Jack said, looking 
at her. 

“Yes; it’s a long time since we were quite alone 
in the house together,” Midge replied, smiling back 
at him. 

“ I hope you don’t mind it?” He stretched out a 
firm brown hand to her as if he w*as very sure of the 
answer. 

Midge laughed outright. “No, I shall he glad 
when I hear Marjie has got to her journey’s end; it 
is a long way.” 

“Oh! yes, but she’s safe enough with Piem and 
Annette to look after her,” he returned. Then, after 
an instant, he said: “By the way, Midge, will you 
j ride to the river with me to-morrow?” 

“ To be sure, if you want me.” 

“I always want you,” he said, touching her hand 
j again. 

“ Then I’ll go with pleasure. What time?” 

13 


194 


ONLY HUMAN. 


“Oh! we ought to start pretty early; I’ve got to 
meet Meredith to look at that new crushing machine ; 
he says it’s going to do wonders.” 

Midge sat quiet for a minute or two. “ Jack !” she 
said at last. 

“Yes, dear?” 

“ Don’t you think you’ve got enough money?” 

He looked at her quizzically. “Well, perhaps I 
have — only, what’s the good of being idle when there 
is work to do? It’s good for the world that more 
wealth should be in it ; one has to think of that, you 
know. ” 

“ Yes?” Her tone was doubtful, and she sat toying 
meditatively with her onyx-handled knife. 

“And I should like to give Marjie a decent fortune 
when she marries, which she’s sure to do.” 

“When she marries!” Midge echoed faintly. 

“Why, yes; you couldn’t expect the child not to 
marry, with a face like hers, to say nothing of her 
fortune,” he returned laughing. 

Midge was silent; Marjie’s marriage, in the clouds 
as it still was, was no laughing matter to her, but a 
fact of much gravity and a subject for the gravest 
consideration. 

“If Marjie ever does marry,” she said at length, 
“ do you think that he — the man — need be told every- 
thing?” 

“Much better to,” said Jack, cracking a walnut; 
“ nothing would be worse than to have things come 
out afterward.” 

“But Marjie need know nothing,” anxiously. 

“ Oh ! no, nor the man either if you would rather 


“i CALL HIM £ JIM.’” 


195 


not. I’d let that matter rest until the necessity 
arises for it to he dealt with,” he returned care- 
lessly. 

He was very careless about the past, in the sense of 
not caring whether the fact of his imprisonment was 
known or not. He never troubled himself about it ; 
as he had said more than once to Midge, the thing 
was over and done ; all the remorse in the world could 
not undo it or take away the fact that he had 
spent eight dreary years in Portland prison. So what 
was the good of worrying? 

Not, mind, that Midge was everlastingly thinking 
or worrying about it; no, no — for days and weeks 
and months the remembrance never troubled her, for 
she never gave a thought to it ; but sometimes, when 
they met English people when they were travelling, 
or when they came to stay a few days at Los Andre, 
or when there was a mention of Marjie’s fortune, 
her marriage, or her season in London, or some ques- 
tion of her presentation at the English court, then 
all the dark past came surging into her brain, and 
the scars of the old wounds ached and burned with a 
fierce and deadly pain. 

And her great, her chiefest desire was that Marjie 
should know nothing, nothing of the past. 

“ I had a letter from Maudie this afternoon,” she 
said presently. 

“ Yes? What has she got to say for herself?” 

“ Oh ! much the usual thing ; she was very funny 
about Aggie, though. She says,” taking the letter 
out of her pocket, “ that Aggie is continually saying 
she can’t think how I can bear malice so long, that 


196 


ONLY HUMAN. 


she never bore malice with me, which is true enough,” 
she broke off. 

“ H’m — then you’d better write back to Maudie and 
tell her that you are the softest-hearted little goose 
in the world, who would forgive your worst enemy 
anything if he’d only give you time to soften down 
a little. And tell her that I, who am not at all like 
you, never forgive, where I once make up my mind 
to hate. And I hate Aggie — if I live to be a thou- 
sand years old I’ll never, never forgive Aggie for the 
mean part she played toward you. Tell Maudie that 
you told me what she said, and that I forbid you ever 
to ask Aggie here or have anything whatever to do 
with her. By the bye,” in a different tone — “how 
did you get the letter?” 

“ Yardly brought it back from San Marco with 
him.” 

“Oh, I see! Ugh! Don’t talk about Aggie to me 
— she makes me ill.” 

Midge had risen from the table and was standing 
before the fire in the wide open grate. She turned 
back to him and clipped her arm about his neck. 

“Jack,” she said, “you think I am much gooder 
than I really am. I don’t forgive very easily — I don’t 
think I want to forgive Aggie. I would not do her 
any harm, but that is all. I hope I shall never see 
her again.” » 

“ So do I,” holding her fast by the waist. “ Well, 
then you’ll go down to the river with me to-morrow?” 

“ Yes, I shall love to go.” 

So the days went on; they were almost always to- 
gether, these two, never dull, for there was plenty go- 




“I CALL HIM £ JIM.”’ 


197 


in g on on the large estate to interest them and to 
give them occupation. Mrs. Jack missed Marjie 
dreadfully when Jack was away for a few hours, but 
otherwise it was, as he had said, like a new honey- 
moon. 

And every few days there came letters from Marjie, 
who was radiantly happy. The Debenhams were 
quite in the best set in Washington, and life, accord- 
ing to her accounts, seemed to be one round of pleas- 
ure-making. Midge smiled happily over the letters, 
thinking that her girl was having some proper joy 
of her life, such as she would have had in London 
if all had gone well with them. 

“ And we went to a dance at the British Legation 
last night,” she wrote. “Such a lovely dance; not 
a public thing, you know, dearest, to which everybody 
is asked, hut a quite private affair, only Lady Blank’s 
own friends. I wore my white dress with the white 
roses and my pearls round my neck. I think I looked 
particularly nice ” 

“ I’m sure of it,” interposed Midge to Jack, who was 
listening to this wonderful account. 

“ And I danced a good deal with one of the at- 
taches , the British military attache: he is simply 
divine and awfully handsome. I fancy he must be 
tremendously popular in Washington, all the other 
girls scowled at me so. Rosie says he wouldn’t have 
danced with me so much if he hadn’t thought me 
quite nice. To-night we are going to a private dance 
at the house of some people called Yan Heythusan. 
I believe it’s to be charming. I am going to wear 
the white dress with the feathers round the lerthe .” 


198 


ONLY HUMAN. 


“ She does not say what his name is,” Midge said as 
she laid the letter down. 

“Easy enough to find out,” said Jack carelessly. 

But they did not trouble to find out. Marjie ’s 
letters were so bright, as they thought so heart-whole, 
and she only spoke of him once or twice, and then 
always as the military attache , so that they did not 
imagine that she took any deep interest in him. 

But still she did not seem to think of coming home, 
and when Midge in one of her letters suggested that 
she would be wearing out her welcome, a letter came 
from Rosie Debenham saying that they all begged 
Marjie might not be sent for just yet. “ She is hav- 
ing such a good time and is so much admired,” she 
wrote, “ and my mother loves to have her here, she’s 
so bright and sweet. So do, dear Mrs. Broughton, 
not send for her home, although I dare say you do 
miss her terribly.” 

That Midge certainly did at times, but she was not 
selfish and she had always Jack, so she wrote telling 
Marjie to stay a little longer and enjoy herself while 
she could, and Marjie, nothing loath, did so. 

Then something took place at Los Andre which 
considerably ruffled the even surface of life there for 
a short time. For one afternoon the colored butler 
came to his mistress and said that Mr. George Brough- 
ton was in the morning-room. 

Jack jumped up in a rage and went out with an in- 
junction to Midge to stay where she was; and Midge 
sat trembling, wondering if he had brought bad news 
and whether he had come in peace or enmity. 

Now it happened that George, finding his mother’s 


I CALL HIM ‘JIM.’” 


199 

annuity of two pounds a week not enough on wh^h 
to live the kind of life he preferred, had made his 
way to Los Andr£ at last in the hope that the past 
would be all forgotten and forgiven, and that he 
would find there a luxurious hotel for which he need 
pay no hills. When Jack walked into the little bou- 
doir where he was waiting, he was considerably aston- 
ished to find that his brother had no intention of 
making him welcome. 

“ What do you want?” he asked curtly. 

“What! Well, a welcome most of all, Jack,” he 
said meekly. 

“Well, that’s what you certainly won’t get,” said 
Jack brusquely. 

“I haven’t troubled you much, Jack,” said George 
in an aggrieved tone. 

“ No. I’ll do you justice for that — you ’ve only had 
a few hundreds out of me, that’s all. But why the 
devil did you come at all? You want money, of 
course?” 

“Well, I do,” said George, picking out the easiest 
chair in the room and comfortably seating himself 
therein. 

“Well, I’ll send you a couple of hundred every 
three months if you’ll name your banker,” said Jack 
curtly; “ more than that I won’t do. Now go.” 

“What! aren’t you going to put me up for the 
night?” the other asked in astonishment. 

“No. Look here: when you had the chance of 
being civil to my wife — civil, mind, nothing more — 
you were not civil. You chose that time to insult her, 
to make her life a little harder than it was ; and now 


200 


ONLY HUMAN. 


brf^ff. I don’t want to argue. Here’s fifty dollars; 
just be off, or by Heaven I’ll set the dogs on you.” 
On which Mr. George, with many curses in his heart, 
quietly betook himself away. 

And a week after this came another letter from 
Marjie. 

% “Dearest Mother: I am so happy — my great 
friend, the British military attache has asked me to 
marry him, and is coming to see you and father next 
week. You said in your last that I had never told 
you his name; how stupid of me, particularly as it is 
such a nice name and he — he is charming. I know 
he is just what you would most like for my husband, 
and I shall be ‘my lady’ some day, think of that! 
His father is Lord Esseldine, and he is called the 
Honorable James Craddock! I call him Jim!” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


A THUNDERBOLT. 

“ He is called the Honorable J ames Craddock ! I 
call him Jim!" 

So Marjie’s loving and innocent letter ended. Her 
mother stared at it with horror-filled eyes, frozen 
dumb with amazement and loathing! 

One awful sentence filled her mind — the sins of the 
fathers shall be visited on the children unto the third 
and fourth generation. 

She hid her burning face in her hands and tried to 
think, to think calmly and clearly. Could it be possi- 
ble that her girl, her one child, her ewe-lamb, Marjie, 
had met and fallen in love with Ms son, with the son 
of the man who had spurned her and insulted her 
when she had gone to him in the desperation of her 
awful trouble? His son — and that Marjie was in love 
with him! What did she say? “I am so happy — I 
know that he is just what you would most like for my 
husband, and I shall be ‘my lady’ some day, think of 
that! ” 

She flung the letter down and began to walk about 
the room in wildest agitation. ‘“I shall be “my 
lady” some day’ — never — never! Oh! never T 

She tramped up and down, trying to beat her 
passion into the rich carpet which covered the floor, 
her mind flying back to that night nearly fifteen years 
201 


202 


ONLY HUMAN. 


ago when she had knelt — knelt to this young man’s 
father in an agony Of supplication, when he had told 
her in his cool, hateful, deliberate tones that he had 
lived all his life on certain principles, and that he 
could not go against them — that it would not be right 
to do so because she was a pretty woman with a per- 
suasive voice and a little child asleep at home. And 
now that same little child’s heart had been stolen by 
the son of this very man. Oh! it was cruel, cruel, 
cruel. It could not, should not, might not he, and 
yet she would have to hurt her child, the darling of 
her soul, in bidding her give her lover up! Oh! it 
was hard, it was so hard! 

But cost what it might, it must he done! It was 
out of the question that Marjie could marry Lord 
Esseldine’s son. Could her heart be in so short a 
time utterly taken captive? Would all the years of 
love and care which she had given to Marjie go for 
nothing? Would this stranger have taken all? Oh! 
surely not ! 

It is impossible to describe rightly the blaze of 
feelings which burned and surged within this little 
woman’s heart. Her anxiety for Marjie, her bitter 
remembrances of the cruel past, a fierce satisfaction 
that at last she had it in her power to return, in 
some measure, the pitiless justice which he had dealt 
out to her — all these feelings were jostling one an- 
other in her wildly beating heart. 

She remembered so well what she had said to him 
that night, how she had put up her hand to stop him 
saying more. “ I know all that you would say,” she 
had said, “ but you have said enough — and too much. 


A THUNDERBOLT. 


203 


I will go now, back to my desolate home and my dis- 
graced child, and you will walk abroad among your 
fellows as a type of an honorable, upright gentleman 
who lives on his principles. But something tells me 
it will not always be so, that a day will come when 
you and I will meet again, with our positions reversed ; 
something tells me that we shall meet again, when I 
shall be on the upper hand, when you will ask a favor 
of me, and I shall have the gratification of giving an 
eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Then, Sir James 
Craddock, you need stoop to ask no favor of me; it 
is refused already.” 

Oh ! yes, she remembered it all so well ! But what 
was the use of staying dreaming here? There was 
plenty to do and she must do it. She rang for her 
maid and told her to pack pp enough things for a 
fortnight’s absence — that she should be starting for 
Washington that day. 

“And I also, madam?” Eugenie asked. 

“ Certainly, yes,” Midge answered. 

It seemed to her as if Jack would never come in ; 
it was nearly lunch-time, and he generally made his 
appearance half an hour or so before that meal on 
such mornings as she did not happen to be out with 
him. A dozen times she went to the window, but no, 
there was no sign ; bat at last, when she was almost 
weeping with impatience and over-wrought anxiety, 
she heard the barking of the dogs and her husband’s 
laugh in the hall. 

He came into her little sitting-room a moment 
later, with a certain breeziness which, as a general 
rule, Midge loved to feel. 


204 


ONLY HUMAN. 


“Well, sweetheart, am I late?" he asked, then 
glanced at the little clock. “No — ah! that’s all 
right." 

“Jack," she said. 

He turned and looked at her. “ Midge, my darling, 
is anything wrong?” he asked anxiously. 

“ Everything — everything,” she almost wailed. “ I 
have had a letter from Marjie." 

“Well, is she ill? What is it?” 

She held out the letter to him and he unfolded it 
with trembling fingers, gathering its contents at a 
glance. 

“ By Jove !" he burst out. “ Well, I never ! What a 
little world it is!" 

“Jack!” she cried. 

“Well?” looking at her in mild surprise. 

“Jack, don’t you see how impossible it is? Don’t 
you see — don’t you understand that I must go off to 
Washington and bring Marjie away at once— at once, 
without a single day’s delay?" 

“Yes, 1 suppose you must,” he said doubtfully. 
He turned back and read the letter again. “ Poor little 
girl, what a pity it is! Of course, Lord Esseldine 
would never give his consent." 

“Lord Esseldine shall never he asked to give it," 
cried Midge. “ I refuse mine, absolutely and for- 
ever." 

Jack looked at her doubtfully. “ I know you hate 
Esseldine," he said hesitatingly; “hut take care you 
don’t break the child’s heart in gratifying your pride, 
that’s all.” 

She walked away from him to the window and 


A THUNDERBOLT. 


205 


stood looking over the lovely view, with eyes full of 
agony that saw nothing. In truth, they were turned 
backward to the vision of a luxurious library in Bel- 
grave Square, where a handsome white-haired man, 
with a cold, pitiless voice — Oh ! it was too horrid, 
horrid. “I tell you,” she said passionately, “that 
dearly as I love my child, my only child, I would 
rather see her in her coffin than married to the son of 
that man. I shall grieve if she suffers, but in this 
case neither she nor we can help ourselves. I have 
suffered for Marjie, and if Marjie has to suffer for — 
for — for me, she must come through it as best she 
can. Jack, she can't have got very fond of him in 
this time,” she broke out almost with a wail: “ it isn’t 
as if it had been going on for years or even months — 
it is but a few weeks.” 

“ It didn’t take me many days to fall hopelessly in 
love with you, Midge,” he said gently. 

“ No; but if your mother had told you how impossi- 
ble it was for you to marry me, if she had told you that 
my people would never, never hear of it, you would 
have made yourself think differently. You know 
you would, Jack. You would have made yourself 
indifferent to me.” 

“ I might have tried," he said, smiling, “ but I am 
quite sure I should never have succeeded. I’m quite 
sure of that.” 

“ Jack, I must go and bring her away — I must,” she 
cried with feverish eagerness. “ You know that 
Lord Esseldine will never consent to such a mar- 
riage. If we could bring ourselves to do so, it would 
be a wretched prospect for her — our little girl whom 


206 


ONLY HUMAN. 


we have loved so and shielded from harm all her life — 
from the knowledge of that cloud most carefully of 
all. Think what such knowledge would be if it 
came from them ; think how they would despise her, 
scorn her, sneer at her. Dear Jack, you don’t know 
what it is. You suffered your bad times among 
strangers — I got through mine among those who had 
made much of me for years before. Dear Jack, 
you don’t know how it hurts when your husband’s 
people belittle you* when they have something to 
throw at you and don’t hesitate to throw it. Oh ! 
I know what it is, and while I can stop it Marjie 
shall never go through that. It may hurt her a little 
at first, but I shall explain to her that I am cruel 
only to be kind. Marjie will understand. Marjie 
knows how I love her, and Marjie is a good girl; she 
won’t mind giving up something when I tell her that 
it is best to do so. Oh! I can trust Marjie.” 

Jack Broughton himself felt that he could not un- 
duly interfere in such a matter as this. After all, he 
urged within himself, Midge had been through it, 
and she alone knew all that she had suffered during 
those eight years while he was shut out from the 
world, and perhaps she was right in wishing to guard 
the child from anything approaching a like ex- 
perience. 

Himself, however, Jack would rather have been 
disposed to let things arrange themselves a little more, 
to have let matters go on until Lord Esseldine had 
actually refused his consent, which Jack did not be- 
lieve he would do. From what he remembered of 
Esseldine, he was not at all the man to raise any 


A THUNDERBOLT. 


207 


obstacle in the way of his son’s marrying a lovely girl 
with a million of money for her dower. However, 
doubtless Midge knew best, and anyway, Jack felt 
inclined to meddle with the affair as little as possible. 

And yet over and over again during that day his 
thoughts went to poor little Marjie, so happy as yet 
in her fool’s paradise at Washington, sunning herself 
in the love of the young military attache, who was 
so handsome and so popular, in the prospect of being 
“ my lady” some day, and in the certainty that her 
Jim was just all that her mother and father would 
most wish for in her husband. 

“ Poor little soul, it’s hard on her,” he said to him- 
self — “ it’s hard that my d — d folly should rise up 
now, after all these years and all these miles away, 
and hurt the one thing that deserves it least. It is 
hard!” 

Midge, still torn by a thousand conflicting feelings, 
could not let the subject rest, could not eat, and 
could talk about nothing else. 

“ Such a strange chance,” she kept saying. “ Who 
could have believed that — that the very first time 
Marjie ever went away from home alone, she should 
be thrown in the way of Ms son ? Strange, too, that 
she should not have told me his name, although she 
has mentioned him so often. Oh! Jack, Jack, my 
heart misgave me when I saw her go — yes, it did, 
indeed; but what could I say against it when she was 
so happy in the prospect of such a gay visit?” 

“Well, well,” said Jack, “don’t worry too much 
about it. Perhaps Marjie won’t care a brass farthing 
one way or the other.” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


INTERDICT. 

Mrs. Broughton left San Marco, the nearest rail- 
way station to Los Andre, at nine o’clock that even- 
ing, and did not arrive in Washington until the 
evening of the third day later. She was not wearied 
particularly by the long journey; she travelled in 
great luxury with a man and maid, and slept well 
enough at night, quite as well as, with this trouble on 
her mind, she would have slept in her own bed at 
Los Andre. 

But she had never, in all her life, known a journey 
seem to take so long; instead of flying along, the 
train surely but crawled, and Midge went over and 
over the whole situation again, until her brain was 
fit to burst with the sustained repression of feeling. 

And yet think and ponder and fret herself as she 
would, she could not answer the one question which 
was uppermost in her mind — What would Marjie say? 
Marjie, who had never been refused anything she 
really wanted in all her life before ? She could not help 
wondering whether Marjie would quietly acquiesce 
and say she really did not mind so very much, or 
whether Marjie would cry and make a great fuss; 
whether Marjie would prove obstinate and insist upon 
marrying this man — oh ! it was no use thinking and 
conjecturing. She told herself so at least a hundred 
208 


INTERDICT. 


209 


times between San Marco and Washington. She tried 
to read, to sew, to knit, to eat, to sleep, but it was no 
use; Marjie filled her mind and would not be driven 
out of it. 

It was just eight o’clock when they reached Wash- 
ington. She went to a hotel, where she changed her 
gown and made herself presentable, then dined, and 
calling a carriage, went to Mr. Debenham ’s house. 

Nobody was at home. Mr. Debenham was out, the 
butler knew not where ; Mrs. Debenham and the young 
ladies had gone to a dance — he did not know what 
time they would be back ; he should say not till late. 

Mrs. Broughton hesitated a moment ; should she 
go in and wait for them, or should she go back to 
the hotel and go to bed, in the hope of getting a good 
night’s rest? She had not very much hope of get- 
ting a good night’s rest, but she decided that she 
would go back to the hotel instead of waiting for two 
or three hours in this strange house, for Rosie Deben- 
ham had struck up a great friendship with Marjie in 
the mountains the previous summer and had stayed 
at Los Andr£, so that Midge knew her well, but not 
her people. 

“ What name shall I say, marm?’ - the colored butler 
asked. 

“No matter; I’ll call again in the morning,” said 
Midge quietly. 

So she had to wait another night. Marjie was en- 
joying herself, and doubtless he was there enjoying 
himself too. The thought haunted her. She went 
to bed, but not to sleep, only falling into an unquiet 
doze toward morning. And by nine o’clock she was 
14 


210 


ONLY HUMAN. 


up and dressed and had eaten as much breakfast as 
she could force herself to do. 

It was striking ten as she knocked at Mr. Deben- 
ham ’s door; the colored gentleman who opened it 
greeted her with a vast smile. “ Yes, the ladies were 
at home,” he told her. “ What name?” 

“Mrs. Broughton,” she answered. 

There was an instant’s silence after he uttered the 
name at the door of the sitting-room, into which he 
ushered her, then an ejaculation of surprise, and 
Marjie came flying across the room and flung herself 
upon her mother. 

“I was so surprised I couldn’t speak for a minute,” 
she said, between laughing and crying. “ Is it really 
you, dearest? I can hardly believe it! But what 
brings you? No bad news, I hope.” 

Midge looked at her daughter sadly. “ I’m afraid 
you will think so, darling,” she said, “but we must 
have a talk together. Won’t you introduce me to 
your hostess, and then perhaps she will let me go up 
to your room and tell you why I have come?” 

Of the three, Mrs. Debenham was the first to 
realize that Marjie’s mother had come on a serious 
errand. She just shook hands with her, asked if she 
had breakfasted, and being answered in the affirma- 
tive, suggested that she and Rosie should leave them. 

“Oh! don’t let me turn you out,” Midge began, 
but Mrs. Debenham stopped her. 

“ Not at all, not at all ; we have something to do in 
the library,” and with a wave of the hand she was 
gone, leaving Midge standing wondering how she 
should break her news to Marjie, and Marjie, with a 


INTERDICT. 


211 


dreadful feeling of dire misfortune upon her, standing 
looking piteously at Midge. 

Marjie was the first to speak. “ Dear mother, what 
is it?” she asked. “Father is not ill, is he? No?” 
as Midge shook her head. “ No? Then is it about my 
Jim? You and father are not angry about it, are 
you?” 

Midge took her hand and drew her down to the 
sofa. “ Darling — dearest — I don’t know how to tell 
you — how to break it to you. It is about that — no, 
we are not angry , but — but you must give him up, 
Marjie.” 

Marjie started violently. “ I must give him up — 
give him up !” she repeated like one dazed. “ Mother, 
what do you mean? I can’t give him up — Jim 
wouldn’t give me up for anything. Is my father 
ruined? If it’s that, I can promise you it won’t make 
any difference to Jim.” 

Midge drew a long breath and shook her head. 
“Oh! my darling,” she cried, “I can only ask you 
to trust in me. I can’t give you any definite explana- 
tion, but you can never, never marry Lord Esseldine’s 
son ; it is impossible. This young man may be very 
charming, very good, very much in love, but he can- 
not marry you. There are grave and serious reasons 
which make it impossible. The fact that he has 
asked you to marry him tells me that he knows noth- 
ing of the reason which makes this so, but the reason 
is there, all the same, and as I tell you, his father’s 
son cannot marry your father’s daughter — Lord Essel- 
dine would be the first to say so. He would never 
consent to such a marriage even if — if / would.” 


212 


ONLY HUMAN. 


“ And if he did?” asked Marjie, a new hope spring- 
ing in her heart. 

“If he did — / never would,” said Midge firmly. 

“But what is the reason?” Marjie cried in a be- 
wildered tone ; she was too thoroughly astonished by 
this sudden change of affairs to cry or make anything 
of a scene. 

“ I cannot tell you.” 

“ Why not?” the girl demanded. 

“ Because I cannot, I simply cannot, Marjie. I 
have loved you all my life; won’t you trust me in 
this?” 

The mother’s tone was painfully in earnest, and 
Marjie looked up at her in wonder. 

“Dearest mother,” she said simply, “in any ordi- 
nary thing I do trust you ; in any ordinary thing I 
would put implicit confidence in your judgment; 
hut this is not an ordinary thing ; you are not asking 
an ordinary sacrifice of me. You are asking me to 
give up my whole life and without giving me any 
reason, good or bad, for it. I have a right to know 
the reason, or else it is one which you have no right 
to use against my happiness. I must know why you 
wish me to give Mr. Craddock up.” 

Now, truth to tell, Mrs. Broughton had taken 
a wrong course with Marjie, and Marjie had taken a 
wrong course with her mother. They were true 
mother and daughter, as like as two peas out of the 
same pod. It was evident that Marjie meant to fight 
for her sweetheart, tooth and nail, and Midge knew 
not what to do to move her from this attitude of 
proud resolution. 


INTERDICT. 


213 


“Marjie,” she said gently, “my dearest, do you 
think that I, who love you so dearly, so tenderly, 
would come all the way from Los Andre to Washing- 
ton to tell you this if I had not some weighty reason 
for it? Think for a moment, my dear, is it likely? 
Don’t you think I would rather take the man of your 
choice by the hand and give him all that I have, 
rather than hurt you for one moment? It is not a 
question of money ; you will have money enough for a 
dozen girls. It. is not a question of position; the son 
of an English nobleman and the daughter of an 
English millionaire are well matched, surely. It is not 
a question of love, for, God help you, my poor child, 
you seem to love each other but too well. No, it is a 
family question. I assure you it cannot be ; and if 
you force me to tell you what it is, you will break my 
heart. I have borne so much, suffered so deeply, 
Marjie. Don’t give me the agony of this.” 

“And you think Lord Esseldine would not con- 
sent?” said Marjie slowly. 

“ I am sure of it.” 

“Jim is sure that he will he delighted,” the girl 
said, keeping tenaciously to that point. 

“ Because he does not know all. When his father 
hears who you are, he will feel just as I do, that such 
a marriage is simply impossible.” 

“But supposing .that he did give his consent?” 
Marjie persisted. 

“ I cannot suppose such a thing,” said Midge in a 
cold tone. 

“ But if he did?” Marjie urged. 

Mrs. Broughton grew a shade whiter. “ I cannot 


214 


ONLY HUMAN. 


imagine it; but if he did, it would make not the 
smallest difference." 

“ Why?" 

“ Because I should not give mine." 

“Never?" 

“ I should never give my consent to that marriage," 
said Midge firmly. Then with a change of tone she 
caught hold of the girl’s hand. “ Oh! Marjie, Mar- 
jie," she cried, “is all my love to count for nothing 
against this stranger, this young man whom you had 
never seen three months ago? Is he so much to you 
already that you can wring my heart like this?" 

Marjie turned her great blue eyes upon her mother’s 
with a reproachful look. “Dear mother," she said 
gently, “ask yourself. Would you at a moment’s 
notice have given my father up like you ask me to 
do? You know what it is to feel that some one is all 
the world to you. My Jim is all the world to me — I 
can’t help it — it came so. You ought to understand 
it. I am not unreasonable. If his father does not 
consent, I would not care to marry him, because — oh ! 
well, because it would be wretched for both of us. 
But I don’t believe Lord Esseldine will object; why 
should he?" 

“Marjie," her mother said coldly, “what you say 
holds good for this young man. He would not marry 
you if he knew that he was not welcome to your 
parents. And whether Lord Esseldine gave his con- 
sent or not, I would rather see you lying in your 
coffin than the wife of Lord Esseldine’s son!" 


CHAPTER XXX. 


IS THERE HO HOPE? 

“I would rather,” repeated Mrs. Broughton to 
Marjie, “ I would rather see you in your coffin than 
the wife of Lord Esseldine’s son.” 

For a moment neither mother nor daughter moved 
nor spoke. Marjie sat staring at her mother — the 
little tender mother who had never seriously said nay 
to her in all her life — like one fascinated, her blue 
eyes wide open, her lips parted, her cheeks blanched 
of all their delicate, changeful coloring. 

In truth, in that brief space of time the girl real- 
ized that there really was some insurmountable bar- 
rier to her marriage with the Honorable James Crad- 
dock. She did not cry or weep, not one tear escaped 
from her strained eyelids, only she grew whiter and 
whiter with each moment, as if all her blood had 
frozen at its fountain-head. 

“Mother,” she said at last, in a strange, gasping 
undertone, “ is it quite true what you say?” 

“ Quite true,” said Midge, recognizing with a shud- 
der that she had at last succeeded in making the girl 
believe the truth of what she said. 

“ And there is no hope?” 

“None — none. Oh, my dear, my darling!” she 
hurst out in a sudden burst of passion, “ don’t you 
215 


216 


ONLY HUMAN. 


think, won’t you believe, don’t you know that I 
would have spared you this if I could?” 

“Yes,” said Marjie, in the same frozen tone. 

She sat still for some time staring absently at noth- 
ing, her hands resting idly and half open on the 
couch beside her, her figure, usually so trim and 
erect, crouched and sunken-looking. And Midge, 
her mother, sat too without moving, positively afraid 
to break the silence lest she should by doing so add 
one pang to her child’s pain. 

Then the little jewelled clock above them struck 
the hour — eleven tiny strokes. Marjie looked up and 
shivered. Was it only one hour, or was it a week, a 
year, a lifetime since the joy had been blotted out 
of her life, since the sun had ceased to shine and 
time present and time to come both seemed black as 
mid of night? 

And she had been so happy ! Her Jim — best, bra- 
vest, dearest of men, handsome as an Apollo and good 
as gold — had loved her so ! — had loved her so? nay, did 
love her so ! Oh, the misery of it, the misery of it ! 

She sprang up and fetched a photograph from a 
side table. “ See,” she cried in a harsh, uneven voice, 
“ can you wonder that I am loth to let him go? And 
he loves me — he loves me — he knows nothing.” 

If the portrait of Lord Esseldine’s son had been 
offered for Mrs. Broughton’s inspection under any 
other circumstances she would have put it haughtily 
on one side. As it was, rather than hurt Marjie at 
such a moment, she took it from her and looked 
at it. 

It was a large photograph of a young man in 


IS THERE NO HOPE? 


217 


shooting clothes sitting on a garden seat. And such 
a young man — so handsome, with such a pair of broad 
shoulders, such a careless and easy pose of the whole 
person, and with such a happy, laughing face, a face 
that looked right out of the picture at you and 
seemed to say — “ Yes, go on — what a joke!” 

She put it down as if it had been a living thing 
that hurt her. Marjie moved restlessly about for a 
few minutes and then said suddenly : 

“There is a train at half-past one, isn’t there? 
Do you mind going home at once? Do you feel too 
tired to start by that? He” — with a glance at the 
portrait — “ he was to come at 3 o’clock. I should 
like to be gone when he comes.” 

“You don’t want to see him again?” Almost 
involuntarily the words escaped the mother’s lips, and 
were repented even in the moment of their birth. 

As it was, Marjie turned her reproachful eyes upon 
her. “I shall always want to see him again,” she 
said with simple dignity, “ I shall want him till I 
die. But if I am to live without him, the sooner I 
begin to get used to it the better. And the sooner 
he gets — used — to doing without me — the better too.” 

“ My dear, I am quite willing to go home by the 
| train at half-past one,” said Midge quietly. “ Shall 
' I come up and help to pack your things?” 

“ No ; I can’t bear it. Leave her behind she can 
follow to-morrow,” said Marjie, in a tone of sharp 
( pain. “ Let us just go away — without any prepara- 
i tions. I will go up to my room — I must write a let- 
; ter. I will send Mrs. Debenham to you.” 

Mrs. Broughton had no alternative but simply to 


218 


ONLY HUMAN. 


acquiesce, and Marjie went away, leaving her mother 
alone. It was perhaps the first time in her life that 
she had ever gone out of her mother’s presence with- 
out some caressing word or look, without a gay word 
or snatch of song upon her lips. This chilled, passive 
Marjie was a stranger to Midge; she would have 
known better how to deal with a passionate outburst 
of grief ; she felt though she had gained the day that 
she was powerless to cope with this terrible compli- 
ance with her wishes. She felt, although she believed 
herself to be right, as if she had cheated her only 
child out of all her happiness, as if she had killed all 
that was best and noblest in her. 

A few minutes later Mrs. Debenham and Eosie 
came hurrying into the room. 

“ I hope nothing is wrong — Marjie would not tell 
us, but she seemed ” 

“ Mrs. Debenham,” said Midge in a choking voice, 
“ everything is wrong. This engagement between my 
child and Mr. Craddock came upon me like a thun- 
derbolt.” 

“ But we thought you would like it — he might 
marry anybody in Washington,” cried the other. “ He 
will be Lord Esseldine one day, and he’s the most 
popular man in the whole city.” 

But Midge shook her head. “ It is not that, not 
that. -His position and he himself may be right 
enough, but Lord Esseldine’s son cannot marry my 
daughter. It is a family affair, and the marriage is 
impossible. Pray do not think I blame you, dear 
Mrs. Debenham ; I have to give you my best thanks 
for all your great kindness and hospitality to Marjie, 


IS THERE NO HOPE? 


219 


but I must ask you to let me take her home at 
once.” 

“ But what does Marjie say? Does she agree?” 

“ Yes ; she wishes to go home by the train which 
leaves at half-past one,” Midge answered steadily. 

“And she is willing to give Mr. Craddock up?” 

“She sees that the marriage cannot take place,” 
said Midge, who was beginning to get nervous and 
to feel a little hysterical. 

“Well, I never!” ejaculated the lady of the house 
in much consternation. 

“I think I’ll go up to Marjie,” said Rosie Deben- 
ham, who had been listening open-mouthed, or nearly 
so, to the conversation. 

She left the two mothers to discuss the advisability 
of Marjie’s maid remaining a few hours that she 
might be spared any trouble of moving, and went up 
to her friend’s room. 

“Marjie,” she said, “what does all this mean?” 

“I don’t know,” said Marjie, in the same spiritless 
tone as she had consented to fall in with her moth- 
er’s wishes. “ I — I — know nothing. You will see 
Jim, won’t you?” 

“ Oh, yes, sure to do so!” Rosie replied. 

“ I will leave a letter for him with you, and you’ll 
tell him, Rosie dear, that — that nothing will ever 
change me. I don’t know what it all means, but my 
mother would not have broken my heart if she could 
have helped it — I’m quite sure of that.” 

Rosie Debenham, who was a tall girl, caught her 
friend in her arms and kissed her. “ Dear Marjie,” 
she said, “don’t look like that — don’t, darling. I 


220 


ONLY HUMAN. 


have a presentiment that it will all come right yet. 
I feel certain of it. And when it does, you and Mr. 
Craddock will laugh together some day — no, no, my 
dear, I don’t mean that; he loves you far too well to 
laugh at anything that has hurt you. But you will 
he happy again together, and you will look back on 
all this as being only a dreadful dream, a mistake, 
a moment of pain — I feel sure of it.” 

But Marjie shook her head. “ I don’t know what 
it all means,” she said, looking at her friend with 
pain-darkened, tearless eyes, “ but my mother told me 
just now that, let Lord Esseldine be ev&r so willing, 
she would rather see me in my coffin than the wife 
of Lord Esseldine’s son. Perhaps he may understand 
why better than I can do.” 

It was, however, of little use for the two girls to 
talk and conjecture; they could arrive at no better 
conclusion than they had already done, and time was 
passing quickly on, and Marjie had as yet written but 
a part of her letter of farewell to James Craddock. 
Rosie therefore left her, and she sat for more than 
an hour writing busily, her hand steady, her face 
cold and collected, her eyes dry and tearless. 

What she said in that letter none but Jim Crad- 
dock ever knew. When it was finished she put it 
in an envelope and sealed it, using her own pretty 
seal with her monogram M. B. for the purpose. 
And when it was time to take leave of her hostess of 
so many weeks she was dressed with her usual neat- 
ness and good taste, only her ashen face and frozen 
manner making any distinct change in her. 

“ You have been very kind and loving to me, dear 


IS THERE NO HOPE? 


221 


Mrs. Debenham,” she said, “ and I hate to leave you 
like this ; but I dare say my mother has told you 
enough for you to see that I am better away. It 
can only give you pain to have me here now, and I 
shall be better at home too. Perhaps Rosie will come 
to Los Andre again some day.” 

She held out her hand in the same unmoved way, 
but Mrs. Debenham, who was an impulsive woman, 
and quick to recognize the hopeless misery in the 
girl’s face and eyes, could not part like this, and 
caught Marjie to her with a cry. “Oh, my dear, 
my dear!” she exclaimed, “I don’t understand it at 
all, but I’m so sorry, so grieved about it!” 

For an instant the girl seemed to yield herself to 
the caress, but the next moment she drew back. 
“Don't” she whispered, “ don't — I can’t bear it!” 

From the Debenhams’ house they drove to the 
depot, Mrs. Broughton having sent Louise to the 
hotel to warn Eugenie of her return home. So they 
found Eugenie and the courier awaiting them, with 
every arrangement made for their journey. 

Marjie stood at the window of the car as the train 
slowly moved off. “Mother,” she said, suddenly 
turning to her and speaking in a tone of entreaty, 
“ I want you to promise me one thing — that you will 
never, never ask me to marry any one else. I have 
given up my life at your bidding, but you must never 
ask me to take up any other life but that which I 
choose myself.” 

“It shall be exactly as you wish yourself,” said 
Midge, without hesitation; “ I will never ask you any- 
thing of that kind, Marjie.” 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


THE HONORABLE JAMES CRADDOCK. 

At 3 o’clock in the afternoon the Honorable Jim 
Craddock was walking leisurely along the wide and 
handsome street in which the Debenhams lived. 

There was little to be wondered at in his having 
taken by storm the heart of the beautiful young heir- 
ess who had been the guest of the Debenhams during 
so many weeks. He was handsome enough to woo 
and win any woman — not handsome in the conven- 
tional sense of the term only, but so big and strong, 
such a manly man, with crisp brown curling hair 
cut rather close, though not shorn like a new-mown 
tennis-ground on a tournament day. He had gray 
eyes, not dove-gray, like those of his sweetheart’s 
little mother, but a deep and liquid gray, with the 
blackest and longest of lashes and straight dark 
brows. The nose was fairly straight, the mouth 
firm, yet given to smiles, and a roguish debonair 
look about him simply irresistible to the woman with 
whom he was brought in contact. He was lithe and 
active too, walked well, throwing his feet well out, 
and yet without a shade of swagger about him. And 
his rich fur-lined coat with its great collar and deep 
cuffs of golden otter set off his good looks to unusual 
advantage. 

He knocked at the Debenhams’ door, and stood 
222 


THE HONORABLE JAMES CRADDOCK. 223 

waiting with that happy look that a man has when 
he is going to meet the woman of his heart. He 
nodded good-naturedly to the huge smile with which 
the butler greeted him, and asked, for form’s sake, 
“Miss Broughton at home?” 

The reply came like a thunderbolt — “ Miss Brough- 
ton have gone, sah.” 

“Eh?” said the other, turning and looking at the 
gentleman of color as if he had not heard aright. 

“Miss Broughton* have gone away this morning, 
sah!” replied Orlando, grinning yet wider, though 
that might have been thought impossible. 

“ Gone away!” echoed Craddock. “ How — I don’t 
understand!” 

“Miss Broughton’s momma came this morning 
and took de young lady away, sah!” replied Orlando 
in explanatory tones. “ But Miss Rosie, she is in — 
she will explain — yes, sah!” 

In complete bewilderment, yet realizing nothing 
of the blow which was about to fall upon him, Crad- 
dock followed the servant into the boudoir of the 
daughter of the house. 

“What’s this I hear about Marjie having gone 
away?” 

Rosie waited until the door was shut. “ Mr. Crad- 
dock,” she said, “something very dreadful has hap- 
pened, and mother and I have just been puzzling our 
brains about it since 11 o’clock; and we’re no 
nearer to any definite understanding than we were 
then. Mrs. Broughton arrived in Washington last 
night, came here while we were all at Mrs. Saunders’ 
dance, would not wait, would not leave her name, and 


224 


ONLY HUMAN. 


Orlando had no idea who she was. This morning at 
10 o’clock she came again, and what happened I don’t 
really know, but after she and Marjie had been an 
hour alone Marjie came out and said that she must 
go home at once, and they left Washington by the 
train at half-past one.” 

“ But why was not I sent for — why ” 

“ Mr. Craddock,” said Rosie solemnly, “ I have told 
you already ’that I know nothing, hut it was to get 
out of your road that they hurried off by that train.” 

“ Out of my road!” he repeated in amazement. 

“ Oh, don’t misunderstand !” she said in haste. “ I 
don’t know what Mrs. Broughton told Marjie, hut 
Marjie is heart-broken if ever a girl was. She didn’t 
cry or make a fuss — that’s not Marjie’sway — but my 
mother couldn’t bear the look of her poor white face, 
and she cried herself sick as soon as they’d gone, and 
she’s had to go to bed with a racking headache.” 

“Miss Rosie,” said Craddock, still in a mist of 
bewilderment, “can’t you tell me anything more 
definite than that? Perhaps her father was ill, or 
they’ve had money losses, or they did not like Marjie 
getting engaged to me without asking them first. 
But if you do know, tell me — don’t, I implore you, 
keep me in suspense about it.” 

“ I can tell you nothing, except that there is some 
objection to your marriage,” answered Rosie. “ And 
from the little I heard I fancy it is a family objec- 
tion, for Mrs. Broughton told Marjie that she would 
rather see her in her coffin than the wife of Lord 
Esseldine’s son.” 

“ My God!” muttered Craddock under his breath. 


THE HONORABLE JAMES CRADDOCK. 225 

“ Marjie left you a letter,” said Rosie, going toward 
her own writing-table. 

“ Yes? Oh, give it to me, please!” 

“Here it is. I’ll leave you while you read it,” 
she said kindly. “Mr. Craddock,” she added, turn- 
ing hack and putting her two hands on his arm, 
“ I’m so sorry about this — I am. And poor little 
Marjie loves you with all her heart. I’m sure of it.” 

. She left him alone then, that he might read his 
little love’s letter of farewell. It was long, tender, 
hopeless, and terribly in earnest. 

“ If you will wait for me as I will for you, dear 
Jim,” it ended, after telling him all that she knew 
and had learned from her mother, “we may be 
happy some day. It is only a forlorn hope, my dear 
love, but it will be the hope of my life. Living or 
dying I am yours, and I swear to you that while you 
are true to me no other man shall ever have one word 
of love from me. If you are not true to me, God 
help me and let me die — I should no longer wish to 
live.” 

He had not the faintest idea what it all meant. 
That the Broughtons could object to him as a suitable 
husband for their daughter, heiress to millions 
though she might be, had never entered his mind. 
He knew nothing of the strange link between them, 
having scarcely heard the Broughton affair mentioned 
in his boyhood, and never since; and all Marjie’s 
letter was as Greek to him, excepting on one point, 
which, alas! was clear enough — that some barrier 
stood in the way of their marriage, to which his 
father was most unlikely to consent, and to which 
15 


226 


ONLY HUMAN. 


her people would never under any circumstances do 
so! But it was perfectly plain that Marjie had given 
him up, and of her own free will ; and I am bound to 
say that when Craddock realized that he hid his face 
on his arm and wept like a child. 

There were unmistakable traces of tears about his 
eyes when Bosie Debenham came into the room again. 
She saw it and avoided looking at him. 

“Tell me,” he said, “what sort of woman is 
Marjie’s mother? Is she a hard, stern kind of 
woman?” 

“Not the very least so. She is very small and 
young-looking, more like Marjie’s sister than her 
mother. She seemed dreadfully distressed and most 
anxious to do everything to save Marjie trouble or 
pain.” 

“ H’m — it is very strange. Marjie gives me little 
or no clew — only about this mysterious family affair 
in the background. I never heard that we were 
related in any way to the Broughtons, but it may be 
so. I don’t take much interest in family chroni- 
cles.” He added, “D — n them!” in his own heart, 
and felt all the better for it. 

“ It is all a mystery to me,” said Bosie; “ but what 
are you going to do?” 

“ I am going to Los Andre at once, if I can get a 
few days’ leave,” he answered. 

“ You are going after her?” 

“ Of course I am. Do you suppose I am going to 
have my sweetheart spirited away from me without 
a word of proper explanation or even a positive proof 
that she throws me over of her own free will? Not 


THE HONORABLE JAMES CRADDOCK. 227 


quite, I assure you. Oh, I dare say it will all turn 
out a mare’s-nest that only wanted looking into. At 
all events, I shall not give my wife up without a fight, 
and a hard one, too.” 

Eosie Debenham looked at him in profoundest 
admiration. What a man he was, with the stains of 
tears that were no disgrace to him still about his 
eyes, and his eager air and sturdy determination not 
to be ousted out of his rights! In spite of her sad 
situation just then, she envied Marjie the love of 
such a one, and she put out her hand impulsively 
and took his. 

“ Marjie’s a lucky girl — and you stick to her, Mr. 
Craddock,” she cried, half way between laughter and 
tears herself. “ I believe, as you say, it will all come 
right in the end. I- told Marjie so.” 

“And Marjie said ” he asked. 

“ Well, Marjie wasn’t inclined to he hopeful, poor 
child,” she said, with a sad smile; “still, you can 
hut try, you know.” 

“And I mean to,” he rejoined quietly. 

He went away after a little while, and Eosie Deb- 
enham stood at the window watching him go down 
the street. 

“Now that’s something like a man,” she said 
aloud. “I wish such a one would come along my 
way; all the fathers and mothers and family his- 
tories in the wide world would not make me break 
with him. But Marjie is so young, so ignorant, after 
living in an out-of-the-way place like Los Andre, 
like a plant in a hot-house. What does she know of 
the world? Nothing! Well, well, I only hope, poor 


228 


ONLY HUMAN. 


little darling, that he may succeed in breaking down 
this barrier, whatever it may chance to be.” 

And a quarter of an hour later James Craddock 
went into the private room of Her Britannic Majes- 
ty’s Minister to the United States, and asked if he 
might have “ a few days’ leave on very important pri- 
vate affairs.” 

“Why, Craddock, I hope nothing is wrong,” said 
the great man, looking up. 

“ Well, sir,” answered Craddock, “ I’m afraid there 
is something seriously wrong with Miss Broughton, 
and I want to go to her father’s place to find out 
what it is.” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


TAKEN" QUIETLY. 

In due time Midge and her girl reached home. 
Jack Broughton, who had been apprised of their 
coming by telegraph, met them at San Marco and 
looked anxiously at Marjie to see what effect her 
mother’s communication might have had upon her. 

At first he was puzzled; she seemed tired and 
rather silent, but she was perfectly composed and 
calm, not at all as if she minded the rupture of her 
engagement very much. She did not speak of it to 
him, and naturally enough he did not like to ask her 
any questions. 

She said that she was tired, and when they reached 
Los Andre declined to come down to dinner, saying 
that she preferred to go straight to bed. 

It was a miserable meal for her father and mother. 
The conscience of one was awake and pricking vig- 
orously, and I doubt if Jack Broughton had ever 
before so fully realized the consequences of his past 
sins so thoroughly as when they came home to him 
after all these years and struck him through the 
heart of the most innocent thing he knew. 

While the servants were in the room Midge could 
and did tell him nothing, but when they were alone, 
and he had lighted a cigarette and was sitting mood- 
ily staring into the blazing fire, she left her place at 
229 


230 


ONLY HUMAN. 


table and seated herself in a low chair within reach 
of his hand. 

“Jack,” she said gently, “I’m afraid you are feel- 
ing this dreadfully.” 

He did not answer that; indeed, it was a remark 
that needed no reply, for Midge, who knew his every 
mood and could read him like a book, knew as well 
as if he had put it into plain words just what was 
passing in his heart. 

“Do you think she does mind much?” he asked 
anxiously. He wanted her to say that she did not, 
but Midge could only tell him what in truth she did 
think. 

“ Yes, I’m afraid she does mind — I’m afraid she 
will mind always. It is not to be wondered at. He 
is a singularly handsome man, not at all like his 
father, though his looks ailed nothing.” 

“ He couldn’t take after his mother. She was as 
ugly as sin, with a face like a horse,” Jack said. It 
was a positive relief to him to find fault with some- 
thing or other, and he had never admired Lady Es- 
seldine — Lady Craddock, as she was then. “ By the 
bye, did you see him?” 

Midge shook her head. “ No, I did not — only a 
photograph. She would not see him. She stood out* 
against giving him up for a long time, but when at 
last I convinced her, she said the sooner she got used 
to doing without him the better. So, of course, I 
brought her away by the very first train.” 

“ Of course — of course. Well, the poor child is 
wise there. But, Midge, nothing — nothing has hurt 
me like this! During these few days I have wished 


TAKEN QUIETLY. 


231 


over and over again that I had never been born, that 
— that I had made an end of it that last night at the 
Monk’s House.” 

She caught at his arm with a cry. “ Oh, don’t 
say that, Jack!” she said, looking nervously round. 
“ If it had been like that I — I — should have died, too; 
and think what Marjie would have been in such a 
case — think what a little outcast she would have been, 
left to Aggie’s tender mercies.” 

“ I) — n Aggie!” he cried passionately. 

“ No, no, Jack! It’s all bad enough without that. 
And Marjie will feel it at first, but she is a good girl; 
she will have her reward by and by — I am sure of that. 
I don’t believe she will ever forget him, but we shall 
be very, very good to her, and after a time he will 
go home and there will be nothing more to remind 
her of him.” 

“And she took it very quietly?” 

“ Perfectly. She made no fuss; indeed, she did not 
shed a tear. And all the way home she was just as 
quiet and composed as she was when you met us at 
San Marco — just the same. Of course, if she had 
been hysterical or anything of that kind, I should not 
have attempted the journey. As it was, she wished 
to come straight home. The best thing will be to 
take her out with you a good deal, get her to ride 
every day, and then gradually get the house filled with 
visitors; but don’t treat her as if anything unusual 
had happened — don’t remind her in any way of the 
past. It will be hard for her for a time, but after a 
while she will forget the worst of it. It is when your 
position is altered, and you have no money of your 


232 


ONLY HUMAN. 


own, and are dependent on another for the very bread 
that you eat — it is then that you feel troubles the 
most bitterly.” 

Mrs. Broughton firmly believed every word that 
she had said. Her own troubles naturally seemed to 
her the bitterest that any woman could have gone 
through. Even now she sometimes thought over the 
past, over the thousand-and-one bitter things that 
Aggie Lawrence had said and done, and had won- 
dered many and many a time how she had ever had 
the courage or strength to come through them as 
triumphantly as she had done. And although she 
was so sorry that such an unexpected trouble had 
come upon Marjie, her little ewe-lamb, grieved from 
the very lowest depths of her heart, yet she honestly 
did believe that in course of time the child would 
forget the love of a few weeks, that amid the tender 
love and many luxuries by which she was surrounded 
she would soon learn to acquiesce in a decision of 
fate against which there was no appeal. 

And she thought, too, that it was such a good 
thing that Marjie had taken the affair so quietly, 
not realizing that a sorrow which has no vent is the 
most dangerous of all sorrows, the hardest of all sor- 
rows to bear ! She was so mistaken, poor, eager, loving 
little woman! She had thought Marjie so sensible, 
whereas, in truth, Marjie was but stunned; she had 
thought Marjie so patient, whereas, in truth, Marjie 
was but frozen into an expressionless calm by the 
very magnitude of the blow which had fallen upon 
her ! She was so mistaken and yet so anxious to do 
the very best for her girl, and at the same time to 


TAKEN QUIETLY. 


233 


soften in some measure the pangs of remorse which 
were tearing at her husband’s heart! 

In truth, she had no easy task before her, let the 
affair be spoken of as little as might be. 

“I suppose the Debenhams thought it all very 
queer?” Jack asked suddenly. 

“I dare say they did; they did not say much,” 
answered Midge. “ Mrs. Debenham realized that the 
objection was a serious one, and therefore said very 
little afterward. And, of course, I was not very long 
in their house. They have been very kind to Marjie 
all the time.” 

“I must send Eosie some sort of a present,” said 
Jack, biting his lip hard, and yet unable to keep a 
tremor out of his voice. “What shall it be? Dia- 
monds or a riding-horse? You’d better think it 
over, Midge.” 

“Oh! would you?” Midge began. 

“ Well, we don’t want them to think we have any 
ill-feeling about the affair,” he replied. “ It wasn’t 
their fault. And the girl is a real nice girl, and 
perhaps it would please Marjie to choose something. 
She may know of something she wants.” 

“ Well, I will talk it over with Marjie,” said Midge; 
“ anyway, there is no hurry for a day or two.” 

“ Oh, not at all — not at all!” returned Jack, in his 
usual perfectly conventional tones, for a servant had 
come in and was beginning to clear the table. 

Midge went from the dining-room into her own 
little room, where they generally sat when they were 
alone. The hall and sitting rooms were no different 
to what they had been for years, and yet to Midge 


r 


234 


ONLY HUMAN. 


they seemed quite different. In truth, the trail of 
the serpent was over the whole house. For years they 
had enjoyed a wealth of fair flowers of Eden, and the 
trail of the serpent had been so slight that it had not 
much affected them; Marjie, indeed, had never known 
that there was a serpent at all. And now — now all the 
beauty and joy of the flowers of home and happiness 
seemed to be marred and spoiled by the trail of that 
old sin which even Jack himself had almost forgotten. 

It was very hard, for Midge and the child had 
had neither part nor lot therein. Stay ! did I say part 
nor lot? That is wrong. Part in the sin they had 
never had ; but lot — yes, during five years of insult 
and dependence, and three other years of loneliness 
and waiting. Oh, how hard, how hard it is that it 
is never the sinner alone who bears the sin, who can 
bear all the' consequences of a sin ! But all the world 
over the rule holds good that the innocent must 
suffer with and for the guilty, and that the sins of 
the fathers must be visited on the children. 

And up in her chamber above Marjie — whom her 
mother had rejoiced in for her calmness, her good 
sense, her quiet acceptance of a cruel fate — was lying 
in the dark, her eyes wide open, painfully wide 
awake, going over and over in her heart with miser- 
able persistence : “ How am I to live without him — 
my Jim, my handsome Jim, who is all the world to 
me — as — I — to — him ? ’ ’ 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

NOW AND FOR ALL TIME. 

Although Marjie Broughton was like her mother, 
as obstinate as possible where she believed herself to 
be in the right, there was no trace of sulkiness about 
her beautiful disposition. 

Once having accepted her mother’s assurance that 
there was an insurmountable obstacle to her marriage 
with Lord Esseldine’s son, she did not rail at fate 
either passively or actively. 

She did not sleep much that night, it is true, but 
she never thought when morning came of doing any- 
thing out of her ordinary habits by way of protesting 
against the need of her disappointment ; on the con- 
trary, she drank her cup of tea and gave her own 
favorite cat some milk in the saucer, as was her regular 
wont. And then she got up and made her usual 
toilet, taking as much care with her appearance as 
she had always done, rather more, in fact, out of an 
instinct of tribute to Jim, by way of proving to her- 
self that, fate or no fate, she was her Jim’s sweetheart 
still. 

Jack Broughton was standing before the fire when 
she went into the dining-room, and he looked at her 
keenly; to him the traces of the past night’s vigil w r ere 
plain enough, and his heart smote him cruelly for 
them. However, he put on a cheerful air, as near to 
235 


236 


ONLY HUMAN. 


his usual genial manner as he could manage. “ Ah, 
my bird!” he said, holding out his hand. 

“ Dear dad,” said Marjie, going close up to him and 
holding up her face to be kissed. 

He caught the sweet face between his hands. “ It’s 
good to have you back again, dearest,” he said fondly; 
and Marjie clung to him in a way which told him 
more eloquently than words how deep her trouble 
was. 

“I’m never going away any more, dad,” she mur- 
mured. 

“That is good hearing for me, my bird,” he an- 
swered, more than half inclined to break down into 
tears. “But here’s the little mother; now let us 
have breakfast. I want to be off. By the way, I’m 
going to the Ridge; won’t you put on your habit and 
go with me?” 

“Not to-day, dear dad,” she replied; “another 
time. I’m too tired to ride to-day, dear — another 
time.” 

It was quite a cheerful meal, both Jack and Midge 
making a great effort to talk and appear just as usu- 
al, especially while a servant was in the room. But 
both husband and wife noticed that Marjie ate next 
to nothing, and neither could avoid seeing that look 
of yearning anguish in the child’s dark-circled blue 
eyes. 

And just as they were finishing there was a sound 
of wheels outside, an imperious summons at the door, 
the clanging of a bell, and the tones of a man’s deep 
voice. 

In an instant a change had swept over Marjie’s 


NOW AND FOR ALL TIME. 237 

face. She who had so bravely refused to wait to see 
her lover again was trembling like a leaf at the 
sound of his voice, for it was him, and the next mo- 
ment Anton flung open the door and said in an im- 
portant voice : “Mr. James Craddock!” 

There was just an instant ’s pause. Craddock looked 
round the room ere his eyes fell on Marjie, who had 
risen from her chair and was swaying to and fro like 
one about to faint. But her face was radiant in 
spite of its deadly pallor, and her eyes were lighted 
up with a wealth of tenderest affection. He never 
hesitated ; he cared nothing that father and mother 
were there and looking anything but a welcome to 
him; he just strode to Marjie and caught her in his 
arms, holding her close to his heart and raining a 
dozen fierce, quick kisses upon her face. 

“ Mr. Broughton,” he said, turning suddenly round 
upon Jack, and holding out his right hand, while he 
still held Marjie closely with his left arm, “ there’s 
been some horrible mistake here. I had Marjie’s let- 
ter. I couldn’t make head or tail of it; I didn’t 
want to,” looking down at Marjie again with a ten- 
der smile. “ And what’s more I don’t mean to. I 
came straight along ; it’s no use writing on such mat- 
ters; one interview is worth all the letters that ever 
were written. But as to giving Marjie up — I can’t 
and I won’t, and that’s flat.” 

At another time Jack Broughton would have burst 
out laughing, and the question would have been set- 
tled. As it was, he had — and it had come to him dur- 
ing Midge’s absence — a certain conviction that this 
young man’s father would never consent to such a 


238 


ONLY HUMAN. 


marriage ; and it was, of course, out of the question 
that Marjie could marry into a noble family where- 
in she would not be welcome. “Mr. Craddock,” he 
said, with a certain degree of stiffness, “ it is almost 
a pity that my wife did not remain a few hours lon- 
ger in Washington, that she might have seen you 
and so spared you the trouble of this journey. You 
must accept our assurances that it is quite impossi- 
ble for you to marry my daughter.” 

“ But why is it impossible?” 

“ Because, in the first place, your father would never 
consent to such a marriage.” 

“What obstacle is there against it?” 

“I cannot explain all that; it is enough for me 
that Lord Esseldine never would consent. ” 

“ I think he would,” said Craddock, looking down 
again at Marjie. “ My father does not interfere much 
with me nor I with him. Marjie has everything to 
recommend her — forgive me, darling, for speaking 
in this horrible mercenary way — and you seem to for- 
get that it is I who want to marry Marjie, not my 
father. And if that is all I will undertake to bring 
you my father’s consent ; you don’t know him, Mr. 
Broughton — I do.” 

“ Don’t I?” said Jack with a smile. “ You are wrong 
there, young sir. It is- because I know your father 
so well, much better than you do, that I say so posi- 
tively that he will not give his consent to your mar- 
riage with my daughter.” 

Then Midge spoke for the first time. “ My dear 
Jack,” she said deliberately, “you seem to forget or 
you put on one side the fact that if Lord Esseldine 


NOW AND FOR ALL TIME. 


239 


would give his consent twenty times over my objec- 
tion would still remain.” 

“ But what objection have you?” demanded Crad- 
dock hotly. 

“ I have an objection and a good one,” said Midge 
in a very cold voice; “ you are your father’s son; that 
is sufficient for me.” 

“ But is that my fault?” he cried.. 

“It is your misfortune,” she rejoined coldly. 

“ Then you ought not to visit my misfortune upon 
me so cruelly,” he urged. “You make it Marjie’s 
misfortune also, and what has Marjie done that 
my father’s shortcomings should be visited upon 
her?” 

“ It is Marjie’s misfortune,” said Midge, in an un- 
moved tone. “ So do not trouble to ask your father’s 
consent. You will only humiliate yourself, for he 
will surely refuse it.” 

“ And if he does — why should that stop our mar- 
riage?” Craddock said. “I am not a boy, Mrs. 
Broughton, but a man old enough to choose my own 
path. My father can leave some property away from 
me, it is true, but what of that?” 

“ It is not a question of property. Marjie is rich 
enough to put all such questions on one side.” 

“Then my position ” he began. 

“ Nor is it a question of position,” said Midge icily. 

“ Then of what is it a question?” he cried. “ I 
think it is my right to know it. Marjie, do you 
know it?” 

“No,” she sighed; “I know nothing — nothing.” 

He turned his head impatiently from side to side, 


240 


ONLY HUMAN. 


as if looking for some loop-hole of escape from the ir- 
revocable fate before them. 

“ It’s this mystery I can’t stand,” he said, looking 
at Jack, for he felt that it was useless to fight against 
the cold detestation in Midge’s face. “ If there 
really is a tangible and sensible reason, and you’d tell 
me what it is, like a man, I should know what to do. 
Oh! I didn’t mean anything personal to you,” he 
added, noticing a quick and involuntary gesture on 
Jack’s part; “but it’s this fighting in the dark — it’s 
not fair ; you know the ropes and I don’t, and I say 
it’s not fair. For the life of me I can’t see a way 
out of it.” 

“The way is quite clear and easy,” put in Midge; 
“ it is the only way out of it ; you cannot marry our 
daughter.” 

“Well,” he said doggedly, “I may as well tell 
you frankly at once that I will never as long as I live 
give Marjie up. I ask your consent, and I shall ask 
my father’s consent, and if I get them well and good, 
all the better. If I cannot get both or either it will 
make no difference to me, not the least. I shall never 
stop trying to get Marjie to marry me without con- 
sent of any kind.” 

“Marjie will never do that.”. 

Craddock appealed to Marjie. “ Would you not, 
darling?” he asked. 

“ I would marry you to-morrow if my father and 
mother and yours would give their consent,” she an- 
swered instantly. 

“ And if they will not?” 

She was silent for a minute. “ I — I — couldn’t go 


NOW AND FOR ALL TIME. 241 

altogether against my mother,” she answered faintly. 
“ I couldn’t, Jim. Don’t ask me to do that.” 

“ But I do ask you — I beg and pray and implore 
of you to do it,” he said, almost beside himself. 
“ Think what my life would be without you — think — 
but no, I won’t say that without you I should go to 
perdition; the man who really loves you couldn’t but 
go straight and keep straight, and that I shall try to 
do even if I never see you again.” 

Jack Broughton walked to the window, simply be- 
cause he could not stand watching those two any lon- 
ger. Oh, it was hard that his only child should love 
and be loved by such a man as this, a gallant gentle- 
man every inch of him, and to feel that there was 
such a barrier between, when he, her father, was just 
longing to go and hold out his hand and bid him take 
her when he would ! It was hard. 

Midge, on the contrary, grew harder with every 
moment -and with every word he uttered. An un- 
fortunate vision of herself, in her dire and unlooked- 
for misfortune, kneeling at the feet of this young 
man’s father, only to be spurned and insulted, rose 
in her mind. She almost forgot that it was Marjie’s 
future of which they were speaking, that it would 
be Marjie’s heart which would suffer most, that it 
would be Marjie’s heart that would be broken. She 
was filled by a terrible remembrance of her words to 
Sir James Craddock that terrible night: “Then, Sir 
James Craddock, you need stoop to ask no favor of 
me — it is refused already!” 

To do her justice, she never for a moment thought 
of the possibility of foregoing her revenge ; no, she 
16 


242 


ONLY HUMAN. 


thought only and solely of that, and she looked at 
her enemy’s son with cold and pitiless eyes, which 
saw his yearning and misery and revelled in it. 

“It is worse than useless to prolong this inter- 
view,” she said very coldly. “ Marjie is not very well 
and all this is exceedingly bad for her. Mr. Crad- 
dock, we will wish you good-morning.” 

In the face of a hint so plain he could not remain 
longer, but he turned to Marjie again and kissed her, 
heedless of her father and mother’s presence. “ Mar- 
jie — my little love — my darling,” he said, speaking 
out loud, like a 'man who is not ashamed of his word, 
“ I must go now — but I will come back. Keep heart 
of grace, darling, and remember that wherever I 
am or you are, I am always thinking of you, always 
loving you. Nothing can ever change me toward 
you; I should love you just the same in a thousand 
years from now. And you will be true? I have your 
promise?” 

“I will be true,” she answered unsteadily, “now 
and for all time.” 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


PUTTING 01^ OF TIME. 

It must be admitted that the Honorable Jim Crad- 
dock went away from Los Andrd in a towering pas- 
sion. He had not expected to be so signally defeated, 
or to come away so ignorant of the reason for his refu- 
sal by Marjie’s parents. It is not easy to fight when 
you do not know where or who your enemy is. If only 
one or other of them had told him all that there 
was to know he would have had some idea what to 
do in order to break down their objections, and so 
win happiness for Marjie and himself. But that cold, 
pitiless refusal disarmed him ; he did not know what 
to make of it, nor which path to pursue next. 

He went back to San Marco, where he remained 
for a couple of days, chiefly in the hope of finding 
out something about the master of Los Andre ; but 
he could learn nothing. The keeper of the hotel at 
which he put up plainly remembered Mr. Broughton 
first coming there with his wife and a little child at- 
tended by an old servant, who was still in the house- 
hold, but was treated more like a relation than a ser- 
vant. He learned that they had been unmistakably 
well off then, that Mr. Broughton had taken up this 
claim, and the lady and little girl had remained for 
several weeks at the hotel as ordinary guests, finally 
243 


244 


ONLY HUMAN. 


agreeing to stay there until a house should he ready 
for them on the estate of Los Andre. 

They had stayed nearly a year, Mr. Broughton com- 
ing down about once a week, and at the end of that 
time they had moved up to Los Andre, to a modest 
but comfortable villa now occupied by the manager 
of the estate. And Jack Broughton had been one of 
the lucky ones in the search after gold or its equiva- 
lent, for everything that represents money seemed to 
have been found at Los Andre — gold, silver, petro- 
leum, all in plenty, and Jack Broughton was now 
one of the richest men in America, his name stand- 
ing as a synonym for good luck and prosperity. 

But the hotel-keeper, who was himself a simple 
soul and had prospered in many ways through the 
master of Los Andre, could tell him nothing that had 
happened out of the common in his life. 

“Well, there was one thing out of the common,” 
he said, garrulously; “yes, hut it might have hap- 
pened to any one. They had been at Los Andre about 
five years when an Englishman came here and put up 
for the night. ‘I’m on my way to Los Andre,’ he 
told me, ‘but I don’t feel equal to going on. I’ll stop 
and sleep the night. I feel shivery, somehow. ’ 

“ I soon got him set by the fire,” the hotel-keeper 
went on, “ hut nothing seemed to warm him. He 
didn’t eat much dinner, little more than a howl of 
broth that my wife made him herself. And he shiv- 
ered and shuddered so that at last I sent off for the 
doctor, and he ordered him to go to bed and stop 
there. We sent for Mr. Broughton the next morning 
and he came down in a rare taking — a rare taking. 


PUTTING ON OF TIME. 


245 


‘Could he be got up to Los Andre?’ he asked; but 
the doctor put his foot down on that. So he sent 
back for Mrs. Broughton and told nurse to come, and 
they nursed him well, poor chap. However, it was 
no good; he’d got a sharp go of inflammation of the 
lungs, and was gone in two days; died with his hand 
in Mr. Broughton’s, and the tears streaming down all 
of their faces, pitiable to see. I did hear Mr. Brough- 
ton say, just at the last when the poor chap knew it 
was all up : ‘ What about the property, Harry? Who 

is it to go to? You ought to make your will, any- 
way.’ 

“ But he wouldn’t; he just shut his eyes and smiled 
like. ‘No — no — Jack, you’re the best friend I ever 
had; it’s all yours. If I’d lived I’d have had my 
share, old chap. I knew it was safe with you. But 
it’s all yours, now, and you two have nursed me like 
a prince. Give the old woman a comfortable income, 
that’s you, nurse — ’ and then he smiled again and I 
came out; I couldn’t stand it. He didn’t live many 
hours, and Jack Broughton, he cried like a baby over 
him. It was all Mrs. Jack could do to comfort 
him.” 

“ And what was he to Mr. Broughton?” Craddock 
asked. 

“Ah, that’s just what I never could find out! I 
did hint at' it to the old nurse, and she shut me up 
at once. ‘It’s quite simple,’ she said; ‘Mr. Desmond 
was my master’s greatest friend, and we’ve been ex- 
pecting him out for some time. There’s no mystery 
at all about it. ’ 

“I said to her, I said: ‘Well, there’s no need to 


246 


ONLY HUMAN. 


take me up so sharp about it. I never suggested any 
that I know of. ’ 

“‘No more perhaps you did,’ was all she said. 
However, sir, you’ll find the poor chap’s grave over 
in the cemetery, with a white cross over him that 
Mr. Broughton had put up. And every year on the 
day he died they come down and cover the grave 
with flowers, every year. He’s never been forgotten 
by them, that’s certain.” 

“H’m,” muttered Craddock, “it’s a sad story.” 

But it did not give him any clew; as the hotel- 
keeper had said, it might have happened to any one. 
He was curious enough to go out to the little ceme- 
tery and search for the grave, which after a time he 
found, just as he had been told he would. A white 
cross, a marble edging, and several great wreaths and 
crosses of flowers which had apparently been placed 
there a few days before. 

Well, he found that there was nothing to be learned 
in San Marco — that would serve his purpose, that is 
to say. So he reluctantly betook himself back to 
Washington, feeling baffled and worsted in every sense 
and at every point. He had, too, the unpleasant feel- 
ing that he could do nothing one way or the other 
for the next month, because it would be impossible 
for him to get home leave just then, he having only 
returned from a trip to England the week previous 
to his first meeting with Marjie. Moreover, his fa- 
ther, Lord Esseldine, was on the eve of a visit to the 
States with one of his daughters, and would probably 
arrive at Washington during the following month. 

The Honorable Jim was not devotedly attached to 


PUTTING ON OF TIME. 


247 


his father, for the simple and good and sufficient 
reason that Lord Esseldine had never courted that 
kind of feeling in his children. An autocrat he had 
been from Jim’s cradle up, and although he had 
impressed his own love of justice upon him, in ad- 
ministering punishment, on the whole it cannot be 
said that a parent’s love of stern justice is an en- 
dearing quality or one that inspires an abiding affec- 
tion in his children. So now that Lord Esseldine 
was a widower and would fain have been close friends 
with his children, he found that they were strongly 
inclined to keep strictly to that place in which he 
had set them at the beginning. 

The Honorable Jim was what is called “ a good 
sort” by nature; he was handsome and popular and 
the son of a rich and influential father. He had 
been fond of his mother in a lukewarm sort of way, 
but he could never remember her stretching a. point 
to save him from an expression of his father’s strict 
sense of justice, and his love for her had been of a 
take-things-as-they-come order. In short, nobody, 
until he met Marjie Broughton, had ever inspired him 
with anything like a passionate feeling, and in a nat- 
ure so strong, so really individual, the flood-gates 
of love once opened, they could not be closed at the 
bidding of another, whether father or stranger. For 
that matter, he could not have closed them himself 
even if he had tried. And he did not try, nor did he 
mean to try ! 

So there was no help for it but his going back to 
Washington, and there waiting until his father should 
turn up. Then, he felt pretty sure, he would be able 


248 


ONLY HUMAN. 


to get at the truth, whether his father was inclined 
to consent to his marriage with Marjie or not. 

On that point he was not so anxious. He knew 
that his father greatly wished him to be married, and 
also that he was fully alive to the advantages of mar- 
rying where money was. Jim himself cared nothing 
at all about money. For one thing he had never act- 
ually known the want of it, although his father had 
never been particularly lavish toward him. But he 
was not a man of very extravagant tastes ; he liked 
many inexpensive and simple pursuits, and all osten- 
tation was abhorrent to him. And he felt, somehow, 
that his father was different. He had always almost 
instinctively felt that Lord Esseldine would never 
have married his mother if she had not been framed 
in gold. 

But, oh, how intensely surprised and astonished 
he would have been if he could have known of that 
old romance of his father’s younger days when he 
had asked Jack Broughton’s mother to marry him ! 
Lord Esseldine had long ago forgotten all about it 
himself ; his feelings had not been very deeply stirred, 
not half so deeply as they had been by Jack Brough- 
ton’s wife when she had gone to him in her distress 
and despair on the night of her husband’s arrest. 

Jim’s chief was very glad to see him back again, 
and inquired kindly as to whether his wooing had 
sped well. 

He asked the question as a joke, being profoundly 
impressed with an idea that anything English and 
titled is welcome to anything American and rich. 

“Hot so very well, sir,” said Jim. “However, 


PUTTING ON OF TIME. 


249 


when my father comes next month I trust it will all 
be put right.” 

“What! Are they standing out for his blessing?” 
Sir George inquired with some amusement. 

“ Not exactly that,” answered Jim. “ You see, the 
Broughtons are English ; they’ve only been out here 
six or seven years, and Miss Broughton’s father and 
mother did anything but jump at me, I can assure 
you.” 

“ Bless me !” ejaculated Sir George. “ Well, I hope 
it will all come right, ’pon my word I do.” 

“Oh! I hope it will, sir. I really don’t see why 
it should not,” said Jim, assuming far more hopeful- 
ness than he actually felt. 

“ Well, if the young lady ” 

“Oh! that’s all right,” interposed Jim hastily. 

“Yes, I’ve no doubt about it,” chuckled Sir George 
in much amusement. “Well, Craddock, she’s very 
pretty and very good form and very charming, and I 
hope it will be all right in the end.” 

“ Thank you, sir,” said Jim gratefully. 

He said no more about it to Sir George or any one 
else, excepting the Debenhams, whom he had asked 
to say nothing about it, and all Washington imagined 
that his engagement to the beautiful Miss Broughton 
was a settled thing, and treated him accordingly. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


LORD ESSELDINE’S CONSENT. 

A little later than his son had expected him Lord 
Esseldine and Miss Craddock arrived in Washington. 
And the very first evening, he having dined quietly 
with them at their hotel, Jim after dinner broached 
the subject of his engagement to his father. 

“I want to ask you a question, sir,” he said, see- 
ing that Lord Esseldine was thoroughly enjoying his 
cigarette, “ or, more truly, I want to ask you a ques- 
tion and to tell you a fact.” 

“ Yes? Go on,” said the old lord, leaning back in 
his chair and watching a thin wreath of blue smoke 
go curling up in the air. 

“I’m thinking of getting married, sir,” said Jim; 
he had always called his father “ sir.” 

“Ah, that in itself is good news!” said Lord Es- 
seldine. “ But — is it to an American lady?” 

“ Not exactly, sir. She lives over this side, it is 
true, but she’s English born of English parents. Her 
father is one of the richest men in America, but he 
has only been here a few years, very few indeed.” 

“Ah, that sounds well! Will this girl have a 
handsome dowry, then?” 

“ She is the only child,” said Jim. “ She will have 
millions.” 


250 


LORD ESSELDINE’S CONSENT. 251 

Lord Esseldine sat bolt upright; he was begin- 
•ning to get interested. 

“Well, and are you engaged to her?” 

“As far as she is concerned I am,” answered Jim. 
“ She is very young, only eighteen — she is wonderfully 
lovely and — and — she loves me. But her people sim- 
ply won’t hear of it, now or ever.” 

“ Won’t hear of it!” The old lord’s tone was pos- 
itively tragic in its mixture of pride and disappoint- 
ment. “And why? Are you not a good enough 
match?” 

“ Perfectly, so far as my position goes — so they tell 
me. But both husband and wife say that you would 
never consent to the marriage, and then, of course, 
they would object to their beautiful daughter with 
her great fortune going into any family that would 
in any sense not welcome her among them ” 

“My dear boy,” said Lord Esseldine cordially, “my 
consent is yours! If she is all that you say you are 
an exceedingly lucky young man. I wish you joy.” 

“But,” said Jim slowly, and looking steadily at 
his father, “ whether you give your consent or not 
does not seem materially to affect them, since they 
absolutely refuse to give theirs ! Her mother, indeed, 
goes even further than that, for she says she would 
rather see her daughter in her coffin than the wife 
of your son.” 

Lord Esseldine stared at his son as if he could not 
believe his own ears. “ I don’t think I quite under- 
stand you,” he said at last. “ But tell me — what is 
this girl’s name?” 

“Her name is Marjory Broughton,” said Jim, 


252 


ONLY HUMAN. 


lingering over the pretty name with a lover’s 
tenderness. 

“ Marjory Broughton,” repeated the old lord blank- 
ly. Then a sudden flash of memory came to him, and 
he blurted out : “ Marjory Broughton! Good God!” 

“ I see you do know something about them,” said 
his son with evident satisfaction, for at last he knew 
that he was going to learn something of the question 
which had puzzled him so sorely during the last few 
weeks. 

“ Know something about them!” echoed his father. 
“ I should think I do know. And do you mean to 
tell me Jack Broughton is one of the richest men in 
America? Why, how on earth did he manage it?” 

“He didn’t manage it on earth at all, ” answered 
Jim; “he has a great estate, claim, call it what you 
will, and he has had more gold and silver and petro- 
leum out of it than any one else in the country. But 
what do you know of him? Where did you know 
him?” 

“ Where? Why, he and his father and grandfather 
before him were our solicitors, had charge of all our 
affairs, and that kind of business that lawyers are 
mixed up with. And about fifteen years ago young 
Jack — this very man — used a lot of securities of mine 
to raise money on for speculation, I suppose, and I 
happened to ask for them to be produced at an awk- 
ward moment when he could not get them back again. 
And the result was that Jack got ten years.” 

“ Ten years — ten years what?” 

“Penal servitude,” returned Lord Esseldine 
dryly. 


LORD ESSELDINE’S CONSENT. 


253 


It was the young man’s turn now to look surprised. 
“You don’t mean it, sir!” he cried. 

“ Yes, I do — of course I do. And sorry enough I 
was that I didn’t let him pull himself together a hit. 
I was a harder man in those days than I am now — by 
a long way.” 

“Then you wouldn’t refuse your consent?” Jim 
asked anxiously. 

“ Well, my dear boy, I can’t say that I would not 
rather that it had never taken place — it’s an ugly 
blot on a man to have done a term of penal servitude, 
whatever it was for. But anyway it isn’t the poor 
girl’s fault, and if you don’t mind it I don’t see why 
I should.” 

“I!” echoed Jim. “Why, I shouldn’t mind if 
Marjie had served it herself, let alone her father.” 

Lord Esseldine, cheered by a good dinner, a pleas- 
ant cigarette, and the prospect of a marriage for his 
son which would bring him millions, was blandly 
indulgent to the rapture of his son’s tone. Himself, 
he could hardly understand a nature like Jim’s. The 
deceased Lady Esseldine — Sarah — had never inspired 
him with an affection of that kind; their wooing had 
been eminently decorous and pre-eminently common- 
place, and Sarah had loved him as she had loved her 
duties, and he — well, he had loved her, he supposed, 
but he was doubtful about it. At all events, if he 
had not loved her very deeply he had always been 
strictly faithful to her, and he felt that that was a 
fact to be proud of. 

“Then what do you propose to do?” he asked 
presently. 


254 


ONLY HUMAN. 


“Well—” and here Jim hesitated. “If you 
would not mind the trouble, sir — I hardly like to ask 
it, and yet ” 

“ My dear boy,” said Lord Esseldine, “ pray speak 
out. If anything I can do will help you I am quite 
at your service.” 

“ Well, if you would go over to Los Andre with me?” 

“ I don’t mind. Is that the name of their place?” 
“It is.” 

“ And how far is Los Andre from here?” 

“ Well, sir, it is three days’ journey,” Jim admitted. 

“ Oh, well, there is no reason why I should not go 
up there with you. I should like to see Jack Brough- 
ton again apart from this marriage ; but could we 
take Lucy there, going without invitation, on an 
errand of diplomacy, so to speak?” 

“ I would much rather not take Lucy,” said Jim, 
for, like most brothers, he had an instinctive dislike 
of his sister knowing anything about his private af- 
fairs; “but that is easily managed. I know some 
awfully nice people here, called Debenham, awfully 
nice. They’d have her there, I am sure, to oblige me. ” 

It was perhaps just as well that the Honorable Lucy 
Craddock was not present just then. For she was a 
young lady with a very large idea of her father’s po- 
sition and her own importance, and to be taken in 
on a visit as a favor to Jim would by no means 
have suited her notions. However, it is an old saw 
which says, “ What the eye does not see, the heart does 
not grieve for,”. and I suppose it holds good with 
the ear as well as the eye. Lord Esseldine, though 
he had quite as large an opinion of the importance 


LORD ESSELDINE’S CONSENT. 


255 


of his position as his daughter, had not quite the 
same opinion of the young lady’s value, and as he 
was not the man to let a mere trifle stand in the way 
of securing a wife with millions for his only son, he 
agreed to Jim’s scheme and told him to arrange the 
visit with the Debenhams as soon as he could. 

Jim managed it very cleverly. He went straight 
to Rosie and told her all his difficulty, and asked her 
if it would be possible for her to invite his sister to 
stay with her during his father’s absence from Wash- 
ington. 

“ Why — to be sure !” Miss Debenham replied. “ My 
mother will be just delighted. She’d just love to 
have her come and stay. And I’ll not say one 
word of your affair with my dear Marjie. Oh, no, not 
a word! And your father does give his consent?” 

“ Oh, yes, he gave that at once!” 

“ And did he know them before they came out 
here?” she inquired. 

“Oh! yes, he says he has known Jack Broughton 
ever since he was a boy. But — but they had a dis- 
agreement and — and they never met since. But I 
hope it will all come right now.” 

“ I hope so too,” said Rosie softly. 

They managed the visit very cleverly and so that 
Lucy Craddock had not the smallest suspicion that 
she had literally been got out of the way. Jim gave 
a small dinner-party to meet his father and mentioned 
in a casual sort of way that he wanted his father to 
take a little trip West with him. 

“ How horrid!” cried Rosie Debenham. “ In such 
weather as this, too ! What queer people you English 


256 


ONLY HUMAN. 


are! I’ll tell you what, Miss Craddock, I’d strike 
if I were you. I wouldn’t go. Suppose you come 
and pay us a little visit instead. I’ll promise you a 
lovely time, far better than you can possibly get out 
West with two men so prosaic as your father and 
brother. No, no,” looking at Lord Esseldine and 
laughing. “ I don’t mean anything at all personal, 
but a girl’s father and brother are not romantic to 
travel with. Some one else’s father or brother is 
generally an improvement.” ^ 

Jim looked up amid the general laugh. “ You will 
go, won’t you, sir?” he said to his father. 

“ Well ” looking doubtfully at Lucy. 

“ Oh! Miss Craddock will come to us, won’t you?” 
cried Rosie. 

“ I would much rather,” Lucy admitted. 

“Then that settles it,” said Jim, with an air of 
relief. 

And so it was settled, and a couple of days later 
Lord Esseldine and his son took their departure from 
Washington, and in due course of time arrived at the 
hotel at San Marco at which Jim had put up for a 
few days on his previous visit. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


RECONCILIATION". 

The hotel at San Marco was quite an important 
hostelry. True, in the old days, before the claim of 
Los Andr& had been developed, it had been but a 
small building. Since then, however, the neighbor- 
hood had quickly developed, as neighborhoods on the 
other side of the herring-pond do, and Jack Brough- 
ton had been enabled to put his first acquaintance in 
San Marco up to more than one good thing, so that 
it was now a large house, long and rambling, which 
had been added to from time to time. 

“Ah! Mr. Johnson — how are you? I’ve brought 
my father to stay a day or two with you,” said Jim, 
in his easy way. 

“How are you, sir? Glad to see you. I reckon 
we’ve not much to tempt strangers here, unless you’re 
going to Los Andre again. Perhaps you are?” 

“Yes, that’s just it,” said Jim gayly. He could 
not help being gay now he was within a few miles of 
Marjie once more. 

“Why, Mr. Broughton’s in the town,” said John- 
son; “ but come in — come in. I reckon you’d like a 
private parlor, eh?” 

“ Yes. I think we’ll have a private sitting-room. 
What do you say, sir?” turning to his father. 

“ By all means,” said the old lord, who was not fond 
17 257 


258 


ONLY HUMAN. 


of roughing it or of hobnobbing with any who came 
along. 

“ Very happy to accommodate you, gentlemen,” the 
landlord cried. He caught up the old lord’s bag 
and hurried in, hut on the way to the sitting-room 
his eye caught sight of the name engraved on the 
silver bar with which it was fastened, and he almost 
dropped it in his surprise. 

He turned and nudged Jim when they had reached 
the sitting-room. “Say,” said he, “is that his 
name?” 

“ Yes.” 

“And is he your father?” 

“ Why, of course — didn’t I tell you so?” 

“ Well, I wish you’d let me know a few hours be- 
forehand, that’s all,” said the other ruefully. 

However, the room was warm and comfortable, and 
Lord Esseldine picked out the easiest chair and set- 
tled himself in it with a good grace enough. Was he 
not coming after millions? And, that being so, what 
did the furniture of a room matter to him? 

Presently the landlord came in, helping to carry 
the breakfast that had been hastily prepared for them. 

“Mr. Broughton’s just ridden in, sir,” he said to 
Jim. 

“ Oh, has he? Well, ask him if he’d mind coming 
in here. Say a gentleman — don’t say w T ho.” 

“ Bight!” And away the hotel-keeper hustled, re- 
turning in five minutes, followed by Jack Broughton, 
who was talking cheerily as he came. 

“Mr. Broughton!” announced the hotel-keeper, 
who had been a waiter in an English hotel in his 


RECONCILIATION. 


259 


time, and was bent on showing the English lord that 
they knew how to do things decently even as far out 
West as San Marco. 

“ Yon wanted to see me ” Jack began, but the 

words died away as his eyes fell upon Craddock and 
then upon his father. 

“Jack!” said Lord Esseldine, leaving his chair and 
holding out his hand. “ Don’t you know me?” 

“Lord Esseldine!” stammered Jack. 

“Yes, my dear boy; I’m glad to see you again,” 
Lord Esseldine said kindly. “ 1 hope you don’t bear 
me any ill will for what’s past and gone? I was a 
harder man then than I am now.” 

“Oh, you were perfectly right, Lord Esseldine,” 
said the other frankly. “I never blamed you, at 
least not for what you did to me ; you were within 
your just rights. It was my own fault entirely. I 
ought to have been kicked. I’ve always felt 
that.” 

“And you’ve done well, I hear,” said the old lord, 
going back to the stove and sitting down again. “ I’m 
very glad to hear it ; I’ve often and often thought 
about you and wondered how you were getting on. 
Yes, often and often.” 

“ That’s awfully good of you,” said Jack. 

He meant it, too. He had often wondered what the 
man whom he had wronged in the past would think 
and say if he could go over the estate at Los Andre 
and see the evidences of wealth that lay on every 
hand. 

He knew that Lord Esseldine had got all his securi- 
ties back, while to those who really had lost money 


260 


ONLY HUMAN. 


over the affair he had long ago made good their loss; 
that had indeed been his first and chiefest care. 

“ So my boy wants to marry your girl?” said the 
old lord, as soon as Jim Craddock had quietly slipped 
out of the room. 

“ Well, I believe he does,” said Jack modestly. 

“And you thought I should not consent?” said 
Lord Esseldine, smiling. 

“That I certainly did,” said Jack, smiling too. 
“ You see, Lord Esseldine, most men in your position 
would object to letting their sons marry girls whose 
fathers had been in Portland.” 

“ I know that. So should I in a general sense. 
But in your case, Jack, it was a little different, and 
I’ve had you more or less on my mind ever since, es- 
pecially lately. I was very hard on you at the time ; 
I always felt that. I might have given you a chance 
to retrieve yourself a bit and I didn’t. Yes, I was 
very hard on you.” 

“Yes, Lord Esseldine,” said Jack frankly. “I 
certainly might have pulled up a little, but the chan- 
ces were a thousand to one against it. I might have 
gone on using what wasn’t my own, and I might and 
probably should have ended in the gutter. But if 
I hadn’t been able to pull things — well, I don’t care 
to think about that at all. As it was I had a sharp 
lesson and it saved me, and I must say I never blamed 
you for your share. Of course, my poor little wife ” 

An exclamation broke from the old lord’s lips. 
“Ah! yes, your wife, Jack — I wasn’t very kind to 
her the night she came to me in her trouble; I’ve 
never got rid of the feeling yet that I wasn’t simply 


RECONCILIATION. 


261 


a brute to her. She said, I remember, that I insulted 
her, but I never meant to do that, Jack, you’ll be- 
lieve that, won’t you?” 

Jack put his hand out instantly. “ I think you are 
uncommonly generous and good about it,” he said 
frankly. “ Yes, my wife had that idea and has it 
still; that’s the worst of it.” 

“ If she hadn’t been in quite such a hurry that 
night,” the old lord went on reflectively, “things 
would have all been different. I didn’t give in to her. 
I didn’t feel as if I could, and she turned round on 
me and just walked into me properly — properly, by 
J ove ! And then she picked up her cloak and bounced 
out like a parched pea on a hot shovel. I ran to the 
door and called to her to stop, but she shut the front 
door with a bang as I spoke, and I dare say she never 
heard me.” 

“I’m sure she didn’t,” said Jack positively. He 
got up from his chair and began to walk about the 
room, and at last he went back to the front of the 
stove. 

“ Look here, Lord Esseldine,” he said in an agi- 
tated way, “ it’s no use my mincing matters. You 
trusted me and I was a thorough-paced scoundrel. 
I richly deserved all I got — it was simply the salva- 
tion of me. So far as I am concerned I’m downright 
glad that you did as you did and that my wife didn’t 
hear you that night and turn back. But, at the same 
time, for her it was different. She does not look at 
it as I do. I dare say she can’t. She had to do as 
best she could for herself and the child during the 
time that I could do nothing for her — and she went 


262 


ONLY HUMAN. 


to my mother. My mother was just as good as gold 
to her, but she was paralyzed and helpless, and my sis- 
ters and brothers led her a devil of a life among 
them, and she has never got over it. And she feels 
the disgrace of the whole thing, I know, though she 
*says little enough ever about it. She is rich enough 
to eat gold if she fancies it, but she can’t take her 
girl to court, and she can’t give her a season in Lon- 
don and — oh, damnation, all the hardship falls on 
those two, the wife and the child, and — and — some- 
times I wish that I’d never been born!” 

“ But if these two marry ” began the old lord, 

but Jack cut him short. 

“ My dear lord, it’s no use talking about that; my 
wife won’t hear of it.” 

“But don’t you think she will now? Not if I go 
and eat humble-pie enough?” asked Lord Esseldine, 
looking up anxiously. 

I am bound to say that at the idea of the rather 
stately old nobleman going and eating humble-pie to 
Midge Jack Broughton went off into the wildest fits 
of laughter ; indeed, he laughed so long and so gayly 
that Lord Esseldine caught the infection and they 
both laughed, one against the other, till they were 
well-nigh speechless. 

“ But you will do your best?” said Lord Esseldine, 
when at last he was able to speak plainly. 

“ That I will.” 

“ And providing that her mother consents we may 
depend on yours, eh? The lad is my only son, Jack, 
and a good lad, a very good lad. I promised him 
that I would do my best, and he has set his heart on 


RECONCILIATION. 


263 


the child. He tells me she is the loveliest thing he 
ever saw in his life.” 

“Oh, she’s lovely enough to be an empress,” an- 
swered Jack carelessly, “ and as good as she’s pretty, 
and that’s saying a good deal, you know, Lord Essel- 
dine.” 

“ That is so,” said the old lord, nodding his white 
head wisely. “All the same, good looks are very 
pleasant when they are thrown in with all the other 
advantages, eh, Broughton ?” At which Jack Brough- 
ton, remembering the remarkably plain and horse- 
like countenance of the late Lady Esseldine, nodded 
too, and could not stop himself from going off into a 
fit of silent laughter. 

“ Then that’s agreed — that provided Mrs. Brough- 
ton can be persuaded into giving her consent to the 
marriage, you and I will do the same?” Lord Essel- 
dine said. 

“ That 1 will,” answered Jack heartily. 

“You’ll have some breakfast with us, eh? John, 
George, Thomas, whatever your name is,” he said to 
a colored waiter who entered the room at that mo- 
ment, “see if you can find Mr. Craddock, and tell 
him that breakfast is waiting.” 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 


KING OF HIMSELF. 

I must admit that Jack Broughton went back to 
Los Andr& that afternoon with very mixed feelings. 
Perhaps never in all his life had he been so torn in 
so many and such different ways. 

In the first place he had practically given his con- 
sent to his daughter’s marriage with Lord Esseldine’s 
son, and, in fact, he had never in all his life, at least 
not since his own marriage, wished so ardently for 
anything as he wished that Midge would forego her 
long-cherished feeling of enmity toward the old lord 
and give her consent to this marriage. 

And yet he felt that, in' the face of the eight sad 
years during which she had been deprived of her 
natural protector, during which she had fought single- 
handed the battle of life for herself and the child, 
he could not positively go against her; he could per- 
suade and reason and coax, but he could not act- 
ually command her. 

He liked Jim Craddock more than any man he had 
ever known excepting his prison-chum Desmond, who 
had died with his hand in his at the hotel at San 
Marco ; better, indeed, than any man he had ever seen 
in his life as a prospective son-in-law. He positively 
longed to have everything settled, and to see his girl’s 
264 


KING OF HIMSELF. 265 

eyes bright and clear once more, to see her sweet, fair 
face without a cloud or shadow to mar its beauty. 

It is almost impossible to describe the load which 
seemed to have been lifted off his heart by this 
friendly meeting with the man whom he had wronged 
in the old days. He had carried his troubles lightly 
always. On the day of his trial, when he had heard 
the dreadful words, “Ten years,” he had neither 
flinched nor given sign of what was raging in his 
heart. And since he had been free he had never even 
told his wife how deeply he had felt the stain of the 
past dishonor. 

Of his term of punishment he thought nothing; 
that did not trouble him much. No; he had all in 
a moment, one dark and dreary night at Portland, 
awakened to the fact that he was a dishonored man, 
and the knowledge had remained with him ever since. 
He was- not and never had been a man to wear his 
heart upon his sleeve — that was not his form at all, 
for he had more of the old courage about him such 
as used to send strong men and delicate women smil- 
ing and scornful to the guillotine rather than give 
the smallest sign of the agony that must have been 
in their hearts. 

And now he felt as if a great load had been lifted 
from his heart as he rode back over the land that he 
loved to the home where all his treasure was. 

It was now six weeks since Marjie and her mother 
had returned from Washington, six weeks during 
which Marjie had lived exactly her old life, at least 
to all outward seeming. 

She had never spoken of Jim Craddock since the 


266 


ONLY HUMAN. 


morning on which he had left her, half fainting, with 
his parting kisses on her lips and his faithful prom- 
ise in her heart. She had promised to be true, but 
to her the promise was one which could have no ful- 
filment. She had no hope for the future, no joy in 
the present, only pain and longing in looking back 
upon the past. 

And she was only eighteen, eighteen years old ; 
she might live to be an old woman, an old, old 
woman. Can you wonder that sometimes she prayed 
for death rather than this life of utter hopelessness? 

She was sitting on the lower terrace as her father 
approached the house, and he looked at her keenly. 
He had wonderfully good sight, and noticed with a 
sad pang that her attitude was downcast, her eyes 
fixed upon the distant hills. He longed with all his 
soul to call to her and tell her that all was well, that 
Lord Esseldine was down at San Marco, not only will- 
ing to consent, but actually anxious for the marriage. 

However, until he had seen Midge and talked her 
into complaisance, he. knew that it would be worse 
than cruel to do so, and he stifled the wish with a 
reluctant but determined will. 

As he drew nearer, Marjie raised her head and saw 
him coming. She rose from her seat and came to 
meet him with a smile on her face that seemed to 
cut his heart like a knife. It was such a forced 
smile, poor child, as if she had set herself a certain 
idea to be lived up to and meant to carry it out at 
whatever cost of pain to herself. 

“Well, dad, are you tired?” she asked, smoothing 
the satin coat of the beautiful mare he rode. 


KING OF HIMSELF. 267 

“ Not at all, my bird,” he answered. “ What have 
you been doing with yourself all day?” 

“Oh, the usual sort of thing.” He was walking 
very slowly along, and she was keeping up with 
the mare, stroking her shoulder the while. “ Mother 
and I went for a drive, to see George Witham, and 
I played a little and saw to my plants and the ani- 
mals and all just as usual.” 

“ Ah, you ought to have come with me!” said Jack, 
quite in earnest. 

“I will next time you go down,” she answered. 
“ You hadn’t been gone ten minutes before I remem- 
bered something I wanted you to do for me.” 

“Yes? What was that?” 

“ Only to call at Miss Pilkington’s to get her to 
match some silks for me — not that it matters — there’s 
plenty of time ahead.” 

Jack Broughton almost choked with the effort to 
keep the tears out of his eyes. “ I’m afraid you find 
the time hang very heavily on your hands, my bird,” 
he said tenderly. 

Marjie shook herself resolutely together again. 
“ Oh, I don’t know — I’m never dull, if that’s what 
you mean, dad,” she said bravely. 

He bent down and patted her on the shoulder. 
“ There, darling, I know. You’ve got a good pluck, 
my little girl, and perhaps it will all come right in 
the end — who knows?” 

She looked up at him — a swift and eager glance — 
but Jack was sitting upright in the saddle again, and 
was looking over the distant horizon ; and she fancied 
that his face was sadder even than she had ever seen 


268 


ONLY HUMAN. 


it. She did not answer, for just then they reached 
the principal entrance to the house, and a swarm of 
dogs nf all sizes and breeds came flying out to meet 
and greet them. 

“ Do you know where the mother is?” he asked, as 
he reached the ground and stood beside her. 

“I fancy she is upstairs, or else in her parlor,” 
Marjie replied. “ Shall I go and see?” 

“No, no; I’ll find her. Down, sir, down; I 
can’t be bothered with any of you.” 

“I’ll take them,” said Marjie, smiling. “Come, 
Nannie — Bouncer — Tray; here, come, come this in- 
stant!” 

They all raced away after her, and Jack went in- 
doors to find his wife. She was not in her own par- 
lor, as they called her boudoir, so he went upstairs 
to see if she was in her bed or dressing room. 

He found her lying on a sofa in her large and lux- 
urious dressing-room. 

“Not well?” he asked, as he kissed her. 

“ Oh, yes, dear, perfectly. I am resting a little, 
that’s all,” she replied. “But are you not back 
rather early?” 

“ Perhaps I am, rather. I had a special reason 
for being so, Midge darling. I have news for 
you.” 

“Yes? What kind of news? Good news? From 
home? What is it, Jack? — tell me.” 

She had risen in her eagerness, and Jack caught 
her in his arms. “ My dear love,” he said x “ I think 
you must know in your heart the one thing that 
could happen which could — though I have never put 


KING OF HIMSELF. 


269 


it into plain words — give me more pleasure and satis- 
faction than anything else in all the world except 
one.” 

“ I don’t understand you,” she said, scarcely above 
a whisper. 

“ I’ll tell you,” he said, holding her very close to him 
and looking down into her soft, troubled eyes. “ Years 
ago I wronged a man very deeply — he was my friend, 
and he trusted me. You know the story as well as 
I do, Midge — how I betrayed his trust and suffered 
for it. Mind, I deserved it, I thoroughly deserved 
it ; I always thought so, and it was only the thought 
that you and our child would suffer with and for me 
that made me attempt any defence. I have suffered 
and I have prospered. All the world has gone well 
with me — I am one of the richest men in America. 
And yet in the midst of my wealth and my success 
I have always had one canker-spot eating at my heart. 
I have not shown it, even to you, until now, because I 
thought that you had suffered enough, more than 
enough, through my sin. But it has always been 
there — the knowledge that I could not go back be- 
cause I might meet the one man whom I had wronged. 
For the whole world at large I care nothing, nothing 
at all. The world forgives anything to a rich man, 
and the world I knew would readily find excuses for 
me. But just that one man has stuck in my throat, 
because I knew that I had wronged him. Well, Midge, 
to-day that man has met me in something more than 
friendship, in complete and perfect reconciliation, 
and my mind is at rest for the first time for more 
than sixteen years.” 


270 


ONLY HUMAN. 


“ Lord Esseldine — you have seen Lord Esseldine?” 
she repeated, in a scared sort of way. 

“ I have seen him and shaken his hand, broken his 
bread — I have made it all Lip!" he cried, in a glad, 
triumphant voice. “ And were it not on account of 
Marjie I should he happier than any king that ever 
lived. Why, I am a king now, the best king that is 
— king of myself. And I only want one thing to 
make me the happiest man on all God’s earth; 
that I want from you, Midge.” 

She grew white, even to her lips, and gazed at him 
with wide-open, horrified eyes. “ You want to give 
Marjie ” 

“I want to make Marjie happy,” he said, taking 
the words out of her mouth and putting a totally 
different construction upon them. 

“ But why — Marjie is forgetting — Marjie does not 
care now!” she cried eagerly. “ It has all passed over 
so quietly. Why drag the wound open again, now 
that all is so quietly settled?” 

“All is not quietly settled; it has not passed over 
quietly except with the quietness such as death brings. 
Midge, my wife, my darling, don’t you see, can’t 
you believe that the child is breaking her heart, that 
she is fading away from before our very eyes?” 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 


HOBSON’S CHOICE. 

“ Jack, you are trying to frighten me,” said Midge, 
in a shaking voice. 

“I am telling you the sober truth,” he answered 
steadily. 

“But why do you think this? Marjie has given 
me no sign that she cares very much about this Mr. 
Craddock; she has shown no sign of illness.” 

“ Marjie believes implicitly in what you told her — 
that you would rather see her in her coffin than the 
wife of Lord Esseldine’s son,” he said firmly. “ Mar- 
jie knows you, though she does not know you as well 
as I do. So what is the use of her complaining? 
Marjie is not the sort of girl who complains.” 

“ Marjie is not ill,” said Mrs. Broughton positively. 

“ Well, wait and see. She cannot ride because her 
back aches! Did Marjie’s hack ever ache before? 
You know as well as I! She never sings now, and 
she does not eat enough to keep a bird alive, and her 
hands are getting transparent, and the blue veins 
are beginning to show about her temples.” 

“And if you have seen all this,” she demanded, 
“why did you not tell me before?” 

“ Because I believed that Lord Esseldine would not 
give his consent — that is why,” he replied. “But 
now that he more than consents — he asks for ours — I 
271 


272 


ONLY HUMAN. 


feel it is time to speak, it is time to say some- 
thing.” 

“ Then I am to stand aside for this man who in- 
sulted me?” she cried, in a great blaze of indignation. 
“ As soon as he condescends to his son’s marrying a 
girl with a million for her dower I am to turn my 
whole mind meekly and say, ‘Thank you — I’m very 
much obliged to you !’ Is that it?” 

“ Oh, Midge!” he cried. He was deeply hurt, more 
than by anything she had ever said to him in all her 
life, and he showed it plainly. 

The sight of his wounded face, instead of touching 
her, only hardened her heart. 

“Yes; I know all that you would say — that I am 
uncharitable, unforgiving, unchristian — yes, I know. 
Well, I’m all that. I cannot bring myself to be 
thankful to Lord Esseldine that he is graciously 
pleased to be willing that his son should marry my 
daughter. I simply cannot. I am not glad — I am 
not thankful! I hate Lord Esseldine and all his 
belongings, root and branch. If Marjie, to whom I 
have devoted myself ever since she was a baby, for 
whom I sacrificed myself all the years when you 
were in prison ” (she had never spoken to him in 
those terms before, and he was quick to mark that 
she did so), “ so that she might never know how hard 
life really was for me and would have been for her — 
if Marjie cares for this comparative stranger more 
than for me, she can marry him — you can give your 
consent. I will go away for a few weeks, and you can 
give her a wedding as grand as you please. Or you 
can take her down to Washington and marry her with 


HOBSON’S CHOICE. 


273 


all the patronage of the Diplomatic people — it is all 
quite simple. But my consent, my blessing, they 
shall never have. It will not matter to her or to you 
if she loves him best.” 

He set her free from the clasp of his arms and 
walked to the window, partly that he might hide 
from her how deeply she had wounded him in the 
hour which should have been one of such rejoicing to 
him. 

“ You know perfectly well that Marjie would never 
marry anybody without your consent,” he said coldly. 

“ I thought that you loved me too well to break 
bread with a man who had insulted me when I was 
alone and in trouble,” she retorted significantly. 

“ Oh, Midge, Midge !” he cried ; “ why will you look 
at it in that light? After all, it was not an inten- 
tional insult, and the man apologized at the same 
moment for having said what he did. Nay, more, 
he tells me that he ran to the door and called to you 
to stop, but that you shut the hall door as he spoke 
your name. He was sorry he had not listened ; he 
has been sorry ever since. Is there to be no forgive- 
ness? I ask you how would the world go on if we all 
hardened our hearts as you are hardening yours now? 
Have we gone on, you and I, all these years to drift 
apart from each other now in the time of our pros- 
perity and what ought to be our happiness? Think 
what you are doing, Midge!” 

“ I have thought of it for years,” she replied, “ and 
during the last six weeks I have thought of nothing 
else.” 

“I know that you suffered,” he went on eagerly. 

18 


274 


ONLY HUMAN. 


“ I know that my people made life a perfect hell to 
you. I know it all. But, Midge, you did not suffer 
the torture of knowing that you had brought it on 
yourself, and that you had dragged those you loved 
best on earth down with you. You did not suffer 
that pain. If life was hard — and I know that it was — 
you had always the satisfaction of a clean conscience. 
You don’t know what it is to feel other than that, or 
you would never stand hesitating between revenge 
and forgiveness as you are doing now.” 

“I am not hesitating,” she said quickly. 

“Then it is no use arguing any further,” he said 
uneasily. “ I shall give my consent to this marriage, 
and if Marjie waits for yours the rest will be upon 
your head. I wash my hands of all further responsi- 
bility in the matter. ” 

He turned and walked out of the room, leaving her 
alone. 

If he had shut the door with a bang she would 
have felt easier in her mind ; as it was, however, he 
closed it very quietly, even gently, and Midge felt 
as if she could with difficulty keep herself from scream- 
ing aloud. 

Was this to be the end of all her struggles, her 
heroic struggles to keep abreast of the troubled 
waters? Was she to lose Jack’s love as well as Mar- 
jie’s? Was there no escaping from the shadow of the 
Craddock family? Was it her fate that the one sol- 
emn threat that she had ever made in all her life 
should thus be rendered impotent and meaningless? 

She walked restlessly about her room, stopping 
now to look out of a window, now to look on some 


HOBSON’S CHOICE. 


275 


picture or photograph. An ivory crucifix hung 
above a large photograph of Jack’s mother, the 
kind and tender mother who had shielded her from 
so much in her greatest hour of need! Midge moved 
away; she could not bear just then to look on either. 

She had hung them in juxtaposition from a feeling 
that the dead woman’s portrait was, next to the carven 
crucifix, the holiest thing she possessed ; it had been 
an almost unconscious tribute to Mrs. Broughton’s 
good qualities. And now the very sight of both 
reproached her. 

She was still moving about when Marjie knocked 
at the door. “May I come in?” she asked, then 
looked round the room. “ Oh, I thought dad was 
here!” 

“He was here until a while ago,” Midge an- 
swered. She looked at the girl for a minute, and 
then asked abruptly, “ Marjie, don’t you feel well?” 

“ Oh, yes, dear!” answered Marjie, turning crimson. 

“Your father has an idea that you are ill,” Midge 
went on, in still the same calculating, speculative 
voice. “ I told him he was quite wrong about it.” 

“Oh, I am all right!” said Marjie, in a would-be 
indifferent tone. 

“ You haven’t seen him — your father, I mean?” 

“Not since he came in from San Marco. Why?” 

“He has told you nothing?” 

“ Told me nothing !” echoed Marjie. “ No, nothing 
out of the common. Why?” 

“I won’t deceive you, my child,” Midge said 
sadly. “ I have acted as I thought for the best dur- 
ing your whole life. When you were little, a little 


276 


ONLY HUMAN. 


child, I went through great troubles. I bore many 
humiliations, bore many insults for your sake, and 
since you have grown up I have tried to make you 
happy.” 

“ Oh, darling mother, yes!” Marjie cried. 

“You had the misfortune,” her mother went on, 
“ to meet and be loved by the son of my bitterest 
enemy. You — you loved him ” 

“ Dearest, need all this be raked up again?” cried 
Marjie, in great distress. “ I have done as you wished ; 
I gave him up at your bidding; I have tried to be 
the same as I was before; have I not succeeded? 
Have I seemed to be repining? I hope not. Give 
me a little time, mother; don’t be too hard on me.” 

Poor child! She was so anxious to do right, and 
she had no idea as she pleaded so eloquently that every 
word she spoke was as a sharp knife plunged to the 
haft in her mother’s storm-tossed, aching heart. 

Mrs. Broughton could not repress a shiver as she 
made a gesture as if to put the girl’s words on one 
side. “ It is not that,” she said, with an effort. “ I 
will not deceive you, Marjie; I will tell you all. 
Lord Esseldine and his son are down at San Marco, 
and he has come on purpose to say that he will con- 
sent to your marriage.” 

Marjie looked up eagerly. “ But your objection, 
dear mother?” she asked. 

“Remains precisely the same,” returned Midge 
curtly. , 

The faint ray of hope faded out of the girl’s face. 
“ I — I wish you had not told me,” she said gently. 

“ I told you because I wished you to know. Your 


HOBSON’S CHOICE. 


277 


father will give his consent, and if you care the most 
for this young man he can take you to Washington 
and you can be married there ; or I will go away ” 

“ Oh, mother, how can you?” the girl cried. 

“Or I will go away,” Mrs. Broughton went on — 
she did not know it, but she was possessed by this 
passion for revenge, and she was changed by it out 
of all likeness to herself — “and it can take place 
from here. Only you must say good-by to me ” 

“ Mother, you are cruel,” Marjie cried indignantly. 

“ The question is, do you care most for him or me?” 
Mrs. Broughton went on pitilessly. 

“ I love you both, ” cried Marjie in a trembling voice. 

“ But which best?” 

“There is no best,” the girl cried. “ How could 
there be?” . 

“Which do you choose?” Midge demanded. 

“ I choose between neither. You have no right to 
ask it of me. I have promised not to marry him 
without your consent — that must content you.” 

Midge was softened a little. “ Marjie, dearest,” 
she said, “ I did not mean to be hard on you. I am 
not myself. Your father has said some very hard 
things to me this afternoon — for the first time in my 
life. And it has hurt me. Forgive me — I am not 
myself.” 

The girl was taller than the mother, and she put 
her arm protectingly round her. “ Y ou and dad must 
not get wrong about me,” she said, in a very calm 
voice; “ that would make me more unhappy than any- 
thing. And don’t worry about me, dear; I shall be 
all right by and by.” 


278 


ONLY HUMAN. 


“But I have given you your choice,” Midge per- 
sisted. 

“Not exactly a choice,” said Marjie gently, and 
with a wan sort of smile — “ a kind of Hobson’s choice, 
dear. I can’t give you credit for what you have not 
done.” 

She lifted her mother’s little hand to her lips and 
kissed it, then went quietly away with a suggestion 
that an hour’s sleep before dinner would do her all 
the good in the world. 

But Midge could not be still; she went downstairs 
and sought out Jack. “ I have told Marjie,” she said ; 
“ I have given her her choice, and she utterly declines 
to hear of a marriage that I do not like. She says 
I am not to worry about her at all, and that nothing 
could make her more unhappy than anything like a 
misunderstanding between you and me. And, J ack, ” 
she added, “ I think you know what that would be 
to me.” 

“My love,” he cried, catching her in his strong 
arms, “ I ask you, can you think of any greater misfort- 
une for me than to have anything wrong between us?” 

So a sort of peace was made. Neither had given 
in, yet neither had won the day. Jack kissed her, 
and Midge nestled her head against him, and they 
sat for half an hour in his den like a pair of newly 
betrothed lovers. 

And then Midge went upstairs to dress for dinner, 
and just as Eugenie was beginning to arrange her 
hair, Marjie’s maid Louise came scurrying in. 

“ Oh, madame, come, come quick ! I don’t know, 
but I think Miss Marjie has gone out of her mind!” 


CHAPTEE XXXIX. 


DEATHLESS LOVE. 

It took Mrs. Broughton but a minute or so to fly 
from her room into Marjie ’s. 

Marjie was sitting at the dressing-table with a 
dressing-comb in her hand. She did not look round 
as Midge came running in, but went on talking in a 
dreadful undertone, combing through the air as if 
she was combing the tresses of an imaginary head in 
her lap. 

“ Marjie, don’t you feel well? What’s the matter, 
dear?” Midge asked, a horrible fear knocking at her 
heart and making her face ashen white. 

Marjie looked up. “ Dead men tell no tales!” she 
said, with a laugh that made the other’s blood grow 
chill, then pointed to her own white face and staring 
eyes. “That’s a girl called Marjory Broughton. 
She’s dead — I’m dead — we’re all dead! Ha! ha! 
ha!” 

Mrs. Broughton shut her eyes and tried to stop her 
ears with her hands. Marjie went on and began to 
sing as she combed and combed — at nothing ! 

“ Three days of love, and only three, 

Were ours to squander or forget ; 

The first we liv’d, we liv’d it by the sea, 

With lips athirst and eyelids wet. 

Along the sand, across the foam, 

We wander’d forth that summer morn ” 

279 


280 


ONLY HUMAN. 


“ Marjie!” cried Midge in a voice of agony. 

“ Dear heart, can you forget the hour, ” 

Marjie sang on — 

“When first our happy love was born?” 

“Marjie — Marjie, speak to me!” Mrs. Broughton 
cried. “ Oh, Marjie, say I’ve not been cruel to you! 
My darling, my own child, say that it is not I who 
have done this!” 

“Don’t,” said Marjie; “you spoil my song when 
you talk. I can never sing when any one is talking. 
And it’s such a pretty song — he brought it to me. 

“We floated next adown the stream, 

And there we kiss’d ! Have you forgot? 

’Twas then we first, we first began to dream — 

I kept your blue forget-me-not ! 

The river whisper’d to the rhyme 
I made that summer day for you ; 

Dear heart, can you forget the time . . . 

That first our love to passion grew?” 

“ Marjie, for mercy’s sake, stop /” Mrs. Broughton 
cried, then turned to the two terrified Frenchwom- 
en. “ Fetch Mr. Broughton and Mrs. Frost !” She felt 
instinctively that old nurse would know what was 
best to do. “Marjie, darling, you are ill; tell me, 
is it your head — does it ache?” 

But Marjie shook her head and began to turn over 
the pretty trifles on the dressing-table, singing scraps 
and snatches of the song the while — 

“ ’Twas music next that came one day, 

Our deathless love and fate between ” 

“ Oh, Marjie — Marjie!” her mother cried. 

“Hollo! what’s the matter?” asked Jack, coming 


DEATHLESS LOVE. 


281 


into the room, having been able to gather no coherent 
information from the excited Frenchwomen. “ Ah !” 
He turned and looked at Midge — a look that seemed 
to go right through her and to blast her very soul like 
a stroke of lightning. 

“Jack," she said between her chattering teeth, 
“ it’s not my doing. Don’t say that I have done 
this.” 

“I said nothing at all,” he said briefly. “Here, 
Louise, go down to the stables at once and tell one 
of the men to take the Monk” — naming the fastest 
trotting-horse in the stables — “ and fetch Dr. Wilson 
hack. Tell him to take the light cart, and not to 
lose a single minute.” 

'“I will, sir.” 

The girl was off like an arrow from a how, and those 
who were left, not knowing what to do for the best, 
stayed there watching her and listening to that dread- 
ful chant, which rang in their ears like a requiem 
for the dead. 

“ ’Twas music next that came one day, 

Our deathless love and fate between ” 

“Oh, Jack, Jack, speak to me!” Midge implored 
in a voice of agony. “ What can I do?” 

“At present nothing,” he answered. 

“ She was so calm and cheerful an hour ago,” she 
urged miserably. 

“ Too calm,” he answered, “but you see to what a 
pass her sense of duty has brought her.” 

“Jack, it shall all be as you wish!” she cried 
wildly. “ I will do anything, consent gladly, thank- 
fully, to anything which will make her happy. I’ve 


282 


ONLY HUMAN. 


been hard, unforgiving, angry, and God has punished 
me — oh, dear Heaven, how hardly!” 

“And how justly!” said Jack involuntarily. 

He positively could not help it. The man had 
suffered tortures during the past few hours, and the 
words were wrung from him by the sight of the in- 
nocent child on whom the sins of the one and the 
pride of the other had fallen so heavily.. 

Midge shuddered, but made not even a sign of de- 
nial. “ Yes, it is true,” she sighed — “ too true. No 
one knows it better than I.” 

He held out his hand to her and held hers fast until 
the doctor came. Marjie was still chanting that 
verse of her song — 

“ ’Twas music next that came one day, 

Our deathless love and fate between ” 

“How now?” asked the doctor briskly. “Why, 
what’s this? My little friend, Miss Marjie, singing 
instead of dressing for dinner !” — for on the way to the 
house he had gathered a confused and garbled account 
of what had happened. 

Marjie smiled and pointed to the glass again. “ All 
dead,” she said; “I’m dead — you’re dead — all 
dead.” 

“Well, we’re all pretty comfortable, anyway,” he 
said, humoring her; then turned to Midge. “This 
looks to me like want of sleep,” he said. “ Has there 
been any trouble of that kind?” 

“ Marjie has not said anything,” Midge began. 

“ I don’t believe she has slept for six weeks,” put 
in Jack curtly. “ Marjie’s not the girl to say any- 
thing.” 


DEATHLESS LOYE. 


283 


“Was there a reason for it — a trouble — a love- 
affair?” Dr. Wilson asked. 

“ That’s just it, doctor,” Jack answered. 

“ And all did not go smoothly, I suppose. How 
long has it been going on?” 

“ Three months or so. But there were obstacles, 
and six weeks ago all was broken off.” 

“ Ah ! Did she cry at all?” 

“ Not at all.” 

“ H’m ! And do those obstacles still remain?” 

“Well — no, they do not. They did until this af- 
ternoon,” Jack told him. 

“ And the gentleman?” 

“ Is down at San Marco.” 

“ Then send for him. I will give her a strong sed- 
ative, and she will sleep. If she can be made to shed 
tears, have a real good cry, when she wakes, all will 
probably be well ; if not, I’m afraid, very much afraid, 
she will have an attack of brain fever!” 

He went to the wash stand, taking a candle with 
him, and motioning to Mrs. Frost with an almost im- 
perceptible gesture. 

“ Get her undressed and into bed as soon as I have 
given her this,” he whispered, “and then I’ll put 
something into her arm that will give her a few 
hours’ sleep.” 

As he spoke he mixed a little white powder with 
a wineglassful of water, and went back to Marjie. 

“Now, Miss Marjie, I want you to drink this; it’s 
the proper thing for dead people to drink.” 

She took it quietly and drank the contents. 
“There!” she said, laughing. 


284 


ONLY HUMAN. 


“ That’s good. Now I want you to let Mrs. Frost 
help you into bed.” 

“ Do dead people go to bed?” she asked. 

“Why not? They go to bed in rather a different 
way, and I shall have to give your arm .a little pinch 
before you go to sleep, that’s all.” 

“ To sleep!” 

“Yes, to sleep — don’t you like going to sleep, eh?” 

“Oh, yes,” she said simply; “ I don’t mind.” 

“ But I do,” the doctor muttered. “ Now, Brough- 
ton, my friend, we don’t want you here just now. 
Suppose you go down and send off for this young gen- 
tleman — he is the next thing of importance.” 

“I will!” said Jack. Poor fellow, he was only too 
eager to be doing something, anything, which might 
get this tangle straight again. 

“And I?” asked Midge eagerly. 

“Help to get her into bed,” the doctor answered; 
“ and let me know as soon as it is accomplished.” 

The draught had already had some effect upon 
Marjie’s nerves, and she suffered herself to be un- 
dressed and put into bed quite passively. And then 
Dr. Wilson, with the aid of a little needle, succeeded 
in getting her into a sound and tranquil sleep. 


CHAPTER XL. 


ONLY HUMAN. 

I scarcely know how to describe Midge’s feelings 
at this time. When Marjie was once fairly asleep, 
Dr. Wilson turned round to her and suggested that 
she might as well go down and get her dinner. 

“ I couldn’t eat it,” she answered. 

“Oh, yes, you could,” said he coolly. “I don’t 
mind telling you, Mrs. Broughton, that I am simply 
famishing for mine. I’ve been eight hours with 
Jackson’s wife, and I had just begun the dinner that 
I wanted very badly when your message came. So 
out of charity to me put on your frock and give me 
some. I can’t go home — at least I’d rather not, for 
I must see Miss Marjie safe out of this sleep before I 
leave her.” 

“ Well, if you put it like that ” Midge began. 

“ Yes, I do put it just like that. Mrs. Frost will sit 
by her and see that she is all right,” and the good 
man gently pushed her out of the room and into the 
broad corridor. 

But Midge could not rest even then. She slipped 
on a loose tea-gown of some soft material and hurried 
off in search of her husband. She met him just at the 
door of his dressing-room. “ Jack, ” she cried, holding 
out her arms toward him, “say that you forgive me. 
I’ve been mad and wicked and cruel — the devil has 
285 


286 


ONLY HUMAN. 


had possession of me. But I am myself again now, 
and Marjie is sleeping soundly. Don’t be angry with 
me." 

“ Was I ever angry with you?" he asked fondly. 

“ Oh, but, Jack, you ought to be!" she cried in an 
agony of self-abasement. “ I have nearly broken my 
darling’s heart — and yours — wretch that I am!" 

“ No, no — all will be well now. When Marjie wakes 
Craddock will be here, and this sleep will avert all the 
danger — at least so Wilson thinks. Don’t reproach 
yourself any more, dearest. I am sure Marjie never 
will." 

He kissed her as tenderly as ever he had done in 
their young days, and drew her toward the stairway. 

“ Come," he said, “there will be no bell to-night. 
I told Anton not to ring for fear of waking the child. 
And Wilson is ramping about . ravenously hungry. 
Pray don’t keep the poor chap waiting; the conse- 
quences may be fatal if you do." * 

So it was with a laugh that Midge went into the 
dining-room, where the doctor was already awaiting 
them. 

“ Dinner won’t be quite so nice," she said in almost 
her ordinary tones. 

“ It smells adorable," returned the doctor in a tone 
of rapture. “ Now, Mrs. Broughton, remember that 
you will spoil my dinner if you don’t eat yours! I 
beg you’ll try, at all events." 

“ I will try — don’t take any notice of me," she said, 
though she felt sickened at the mere idea of eating a 
morsel. 

“Anton," said Jack, “take Mrs. Broughton some 


ONLY HUMAN. 


287 


champagne at once. All this has upset you, Midge. 
Yes, do drink it — it will do you all the good in the 
world.” 

She passively obeyed him. Poor little woman, now 
that the long-nursed demon of revenge was exorcised, 
she felt as if she had but just come through a terrible 
storm — as indeed she had. 

“ You do think Marjie will be all right, doctor?” 
she asked presently, when she had forced herself to 
swallow a few mouthfuls of soup. 

“ Oh, yes, I think so. You see, these young things 
can’t stand want of sleep — that’s about it. And a 
love-affair into the bargain — well, it’s a queer busi- 
ness is that same love. I never could understand it. 
I believe it’s all a question of brain-cells. The brain- 
cells get into a certain condition, and then outside 
influences make a certain impression. If the brain- 
cells don’t get into that particular condition, outside 
influences may just as well go and hang themselves 
at once.” 

Jack Broughton burst out laughing, partly at the 
doctor’s unusual ideas, partly at his wife’s scared face. 

“ Well, this particular outside influence is just about 
the most calculated to find brain-cells in that partic- 
ular condition of any outside influence you ever saw 
in your life, doctor,” he said cheerily. “ ’Pon my 
word, I think he’s the handsomest fellow, take him 
all round, that I ever saw.” 

Midge looked across at her husband involuntarily, 
and Jack caught the glance and guessed its meaning, 
raising his glass slightly to her in reply. He had al- 
ways been the handsomest man in the world to his 


288 


ONLY HUMAN. 


wife, and he knew it, and acknowledged the little com- 
pliment accordingly. 

So the meal passed over very successfully, and the 
evening also. Dr. Wilson went up twice or three times 
and saw Marjie, who was, as he put it, “ in quite a 
beautiful sleep;” and at last they heard the sound 
of horses coming up the road, and the carriage which 
had been sent to fetch Lord Esseldine and his son 
drew up at the portico with a great dash and clatter. 

Jack Broughton went out himself to greet them. 
“A thousand times welcome to Los Andrd!” he said 
heartily. 

“And Marjie?” asked Jim. 

“ Oh, Marjie gave us all a tremendous fright, I 
can tell you,” Jack answered cheerily. “ Want of sleep, 
as a matter of fact. But our good doctor gave her 
something pretty powerful, I suppose, and she’s been 
sleeping like a child for hours now.” 

Craddock gave a great sigh of relief. “ That’s all 
right,” he said, putting his hand into the outstretched 
one of welcome. “ I was afraid it might be worse 
than that.” 

“It was bad enough, in all conscience,” returned 
Jack, very gravely. “ And when she awakes we hope 
it will be all right,” with an emphasis on the word 
which was enough to make both father and son feel 
that they had not been sent for in such hurry on a 
needless alarm. 

“ This way,” said Jack, when they had taken their 
furs and wraps off. 

He led them toward Midge’s parlor. “Midge,” 
he said, as he opened the door, “ they are here.” 


ONLY HUMAN 


289 


She came to meet them at once. She was very 
pale, and in spite of herself her lips were trembling. 

“Lord Esseldine,” she said, holding out her hand, 
“you are welcome to Los AndrA” 

“And I,” said he, “am delighted to find myself 
here.” 

There was a moment’s silence. “ Lord Esseldine,” 
Midge began, “ I ” 

“Mrs. Broughton,” he broke in, finding that she 
hesitated for her next words, “ shall we agree to let 
all bygones be bygones, for the sake of my boy and 
your girl? Jack was wrong and I was wrong, and 
you, poor child, suffered for the fault of one and the 
hardness of the other. But I hope you have forgiven 
all that now, and will try to forget it.” 

“ You are very kind, very generous,” she murmured. 
The thought did flit across her mind that Lord Es- 
seldine would not perhaps have been so forgiving had 
not her girl’s father been one of the richest men in 
America. She couldn’t help it — it might be un- 
worthy, but after all she was only human ! 

However, her girl was lying upstairs in a sleep 
which might end in happiness and which might end 
in brain fever. And the horrible fear through which 
she had gone, and which still shadowed her, had hast- 
ened Midge as nothing else on earth would have had 
power to do. So she held her tongue and let the old 
lord’s bland words of reconciliation carry the day. 

She had ordered supper for the travellers, and very 
soon Anton came to say that all was ready. 

“ Then come and eat, ” said Jack hospitably. “ You 
especially, Craddock, for you may have to sit up for 
9 


290 


ONLY HUMAN. 


hours. Dr. Wilson wants you to see Marjie the in- 
stant she wakes up.” 

And about three hours afterward Marjie did wake. 
Dr. Wilson was with her, and gave the signal for 
Craddock to be fetched. 

“Now how do you feel, my dear child?” he asked 
kindly. 

“ Have I been ill?” Marjie asked wonder ingly. 

“Well, you haven’t been very well, but still you’ve 
had a good, long, refreshing sleep, and you’ll be all 
right in a few hours, I dare say.” He turned his head 
and saw that Craddock was there, and made a gesture 
to him that when he moved away he should slip into 
his place. 

The next moment Craddock passed behind the cur- 
tain and bent down over Marjie. 

“ Marjie — darling,” he said gently. 

She looked up in surprise. “You here, dear 
Jim?” 

“Yes — you’ve been ill, you know,” he said, slip- 
ping down on his knees that he might be the nearer 
to her ear; “but you’ll soon be all right now, 
and ” 

“ Oh, but mother — mother — she said that ” 

“ Yes, but that is all over now, that is all right. 
She has given her consent, and my father is here — yes, 
downstairs. Don’t cry, Marjie, don’t,” he cried im- 
ploringly, for Marjie, after staring at him in a bewil- 
dered way for a moment, had burst into a violent 
storm of sobs and tears. 

“Don’t try to check it,” whispered the doctor; 


ONLY HUMAN. 


291 


“ let her cry as long as she will. It means the salva- 
tion of her reason,” and then he slipped away, waving 
the others out of the room, at the door of which he 
remained keeping guard, and thinking in a wonder- 
ing kind of way of the relation between outside influ- 
ences and a certain condition of brain-cells. 

“I don’t see why she should be told at all,” said 
Lord Esseldine during the late breakfast the follow- 
ing morning. “ Nobody is at all likely to tell her, 
and if she knows she will always be on the lookout 
for slights, which would mostly exist in her own im- 
aginative brain. You have already had proof of 
how she broods over her troubles, and it all happened 
so long ago that probably nobody in England will re- 
member it, and if they do they won’t talk to her 
about it. Besides, who is to tell her?” 

“Not I,” said Midge firmly. “I would rather 
die.” 

“ Nothing on earth would induce me to do it now 
or at any other time,” declared Craddock, in tones of 
equally firm conviction. 

“ And it would come with a particularly bad grace 
from me,” said the old lord, who, having wiped the 
slate of the past, took a pride in letting it be known 
that he had wiped it clean. 

“Oh, I’ll tell her fast enough, /don’t mind,” 
said Jack quietly. “ The only question is, is it wise 
to tell her at all?” 

“No,” said Craddock instantly. 

“No,” said the old lord in the same breath. 


292 


ONLY HUMAN. 


“ And you promise me you will never tell her?” said 
Midge, looking at Craddock. 

“ On my honor, I swear it,” he answered earnestly. 

“ The fact is, my darling child,” said Jack Brough- 
ton to Marjie a few hours later, “ your mother and I 
never thought that Lord Esseldine would consent, 
and besides that your mother hated him like — like a 
toad.” 

“ But why?” asked Marjie. To her he seemed the 
most delightful old man she had ever seen. 

“ Well, the real truth is,” said Jack, “ that a good 
many years ago I did Lord Esseldine a great wrong. 
Yes, it was a very great wrong, and I have suffered 
for it more or less ever since, right up to the present 
time. And on his side he grievously offended Midge, 
your mother, and — and she was determined to be up- 
sides with him in anticipating his refusal. However, 
he and Craddock came out to San Marco, and — and 
it all got put right, and we have all agreed for you 
two young folks’ sake to let bygones he bygones, and to 
he good friends all round.” 

“ And you don’t think mother is unhappy about 
it?” Marjie asked. 

“I am sure she is not,” he replied. “While I — 
why, my darling, I was never so happy and rejoiced 
in all my life before as I am to-day. Eh? What’s 
that? Come in ! Oh, it’s you, is it, prowling about?” 
as Craddock put his head in at the door. “ Here, 
take her. She knows all that is necessary for her to 
know. Go along, and be sure you don’t quarrel.” 


ONLY HUMAN. 


293 


“ Quarrel !” echoed Craddock in much disdain. 

“ Quarrel!” chimed in Marjie with a laugh. 

Jack Broughton watched them go away with misty 
eyes. “ God bless her — God bless ’em both!” he said 
under his breath — “ and she’ll be ‘my lady’ after 
all.” 


THE END. 



SfEifcjS* (r^fiv^w (rdRy^S^ (r@K 


A LIST OF BOOKS 


SELECTED FROM THE 


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OF 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 

¥ 

Complete Catalogue Sent on Application. 


“OUIDA’S” 

Popular Novels. 


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PUCK. 

PASCAREL. 

BEBEE. 

S 1 GNA. 

IN A WINTER CITY. 
ARIADNE. 

FRIENDSHIP. 

MOTHS. 

A VILLAGE COMMUNF 
IN MAREMMA. 
WANDA. 

PRINCESS NAPRAXINE 
GUILDEROY. 


BEATRICE BOVILLE. 

CECIL CASTLEMAINE’S GAGE. 
CHANDOS. 

FOLLE-FAR 1 NE. 

GRANVILLE DE VIGNE. 
IDALIA. 

RANDOLPH GORDON. 
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UNDER TWO FLAGS. 

BIMB 1 : Stories for Children. 
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A HOUSE-PARTY. 


SYRL 1 N. Paper, 50 cents. 


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“‘Ouida’s’ stories are abundant in world knowledge and 
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“ A graphic and very interesting anonymous story of a young journal- 
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fiction.” — Albany Journal. 


BY MARY AGNES TINCKER. 

AURORA. 

Illustrated. i2mo. Cloth, $1.25. 

“ It is a story so delicately wrought, so artistically perfect, that one 
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full of dramatic situations, and of subtle, pervasive power.”— Boston 
Evening Traveller . 

“ Everything which Miss Tincker writes bears the stamp of a refined 
mind, a poetic temperament, and unmistakable genius. The story glows 
with Southern warmth and sparkles with good things, and is very complete 
in every way.” — London Whitehall Review. 


THE JEWEL IN THE LOTOS. 

Illustrated. l2mo. Extra cloth, $ 1 . 2 $. 

“ There is not a dull page in it. Every one in this novel, from Glen- 
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be glad to quote, but we must be content to leave these to the reader to 
discover.” — The Literary World. 

“ An Italian tale of the highest order of literary merit. The pictures 
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with a masculine hand, while the emotions are played upon with a touch 
delicately feminine. The language is as fluent as the discernment is keen, 
and the reader is carried along by an easy progress through the details of 
a rather' sad plot as smoothly as the glide of a gondola on a Venetian 
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“The Duchess” Novels. 


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Phyllis. 

Molly Bawn. 

Airy Fairy Lilian. 
Beauty’s Daughters. 
Faith and Unfaith. 
Doris. 

“O Tender Dolores.” 

A Maiden All Forlorn. 
In Durance Vile. 

The Duchess. 

Marvel. 

Jerry, and other Stories. 


Mrs. Geoffrey. 

Portia. 

Loys, Lord Berresford, and 
other Stories. 

Rossmoyne. 

A Mental Struggle. 

Lady Valworth’s Diamonds. 
Lady Branksmere. 

A Modern Circe. 

The Honourable Mrs. Vereker. 
Under-Currents . 

A Life’s Remorse. 


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A Little Irish Girl. 

i2mo. Cloth, 75 cents; paper, 50 cents. 

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by her are the airiest, lightest, and brightest imaginable ; full 
of wit, spirit, and gayety, yet containing touches of the most 
exquisite pathos. There is something good in all of them.” — 
London Academy. 


MADAME DE MAURESCAMP. 

A Story of Parisian Life. By Octave Feuillet. i2mo. 

Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cents. 

A distinctively Parisian story in Feuillet’s racy style, con- 
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ter, would do well to carefully note. 


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Entertaining Stories 

BY THE MISSES WARNER. 


PATIENCE. 


By Anna B. Warner. i2mo. Cloth, #1.25. 

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more American. 

“Told so well and withal so natural — character, scenes, incidents, all 
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respect the sweet girl heroine, and close the book with a sigh that Patience 
Hathaway, after all, lost the lover she sweetly worshipped and failed to 
receive in maturer years the reward that ought to have been bestowed upon 
such a heroine — and perhaps would have been were the writer not retailing 
a story of long ago as it was told her. By all means read Anna B. Warner’s 
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DAISY. A Sequel to Melbourne House. 


DOLLARS AND CENTS. SAY AND SEAL. 

MY BROTHER’S KEEPER. THE HILLS OF THE SHATEMUC. 


THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD. 


QUEECHY. 


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WIDE, WIDE WORLD. 



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CTORIES BY 

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BEHIND THE BLUE RIDGE. 

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A SHOCKING EXAMPLE, 

and Other Sketches. • i2mo. Cloth, $1.25. 

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A Lost Wife. The Cost of a Lie. 

This Wicked World. A Devout Lover. 

A Life’s Mistake. Worth Winning. 

Vera Neville. Pure Gold. 

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Jack’s Secret. 

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Mary St. John. Heriot’s Choice. 


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The Search tor Basil Lyndhurst. 


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Not Like Other Girls. 
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Robert Ord’s Atonement. 
Uncle Max. 

Only the Governess. 


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BRUETON’S BAYOU, 

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MISS DEFARGE, 

By Frances Hodgson Burnett, author of “ That Lass 

o’ Lowrie’s.” Complete in one volume. Square i2mo. 

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* Miss Defarge’ is a strong study of a very resolute and self- 
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MRS. A. L. WISTER’S 

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE GERMAN 


“O THOU, MY AUSTRIA!” 

By Ossip Schubin. i2mo. Cloth, $1.25. 

** The young girl of the story is charming. A quick succession of inci- 
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book interesting to those who welcome gladly another production of this 
well-known translator .” — Boston Journal. 

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their way into American homes. She makes her selections only from the 
best German authors, about whose books there is an air of perfect refine- 
ment and unquestionable morality .” — Kansas City Times. 


ERLACH COURT. 

By Ossip Schubin. i2mo. Cloth, #1.25. 

“ Ossip Schubin deals largely with scenes laid among the Austrian 
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life. There is, moreover, a vein of exceeding cleverness which yields de- 
lightful flashes on every page The story is by no means dull, but it is the 
way of telling it which is chiefly attractive. When, as sometimes happens, 
the characters crowd too closely, they bring their own excuse in the vivid- 
ness of their being. Mrs. Wister’s translation is of course admirably made, 
and the public will thank her for what she has done and for her skill in 
doing it .” — New York Nation. 


THE ALPINE FAY. 

A Romance. From the German of E. Werner i2mo. 

Cloth, $1.25. 

“ Next to a long trip and residence abroad an American can easiest 
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way of a projected railroad. Of course, the proprietor has a charming 
daughter, and the railway company has a young and handsome engineer. 
Sharp contrasts of character and methods of thought make the book in- 
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MRS. A. L. WISTER’S 

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE GERMAN. 


THE OWL’S NEST. 

By E. Marlitt. i2mo. Cloth, $1.25. 

"The book is as sweet and wholesome as its predecessors. . . . The 
descriptions of scenery are alone enough to reward one for reading the 
book. They are so vivid that one can almost smell the pines and feel the 
blowing wind.” — Boston Globe. 

" This story has the minute delicacy and graphic simplicity of all of 
Marlitt’s stories, and it is gracefully translated.” — New York Independent. 


PICKED UP IN THE STREETS. 

By H. Schobert. i2mo. Cloth, $1.25. 

“ These translations are gaining a place among the standard literature 
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and instructive, and the moral such as will be an influence for good,” — 
Norristown Herald. 

SAINT MICHAEL. 

By E. Werner. i2mo. Cloth, $1.25. 

** The romantic tales of E. Werner, which Mrs. Wister, through indus- 
trious translation, has made well known to American readers, are appre- 
ciated by many who like pure romance to sweeten the realities of life. ' St. 
Michael’ abounds in many poetical and dramatic situations, and is full of 
military fire and energy, having many spirited scenes, and maintaining the 
interest of the reader.” — Boston Journal. 

VIOLETTA. 

After the German of Ursula Zoge von Manteuffel. 

i2mo. Cloth, $1.25. 

" ' Violetta,' as adapted by Mrs. Wister, is a clever novel. The char- 
acters are clear-cut, natural, and strong. The situations are full of inter- 
est, the dialogue is bright and vigorous. The heroine is a particularly 
happy conception, worked out with much skill. There is decided power 
in the book and a delicacy of manipulation so rare as to be very agreeable. 
Mrs. Wister has so skilfully adapted the story that it could not read more 
smoothly if it had been written in English.” — New York Tribune. 


For sale by all Booksellers. Sent by the Publishers, 
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MRS. A. L. WISTER’S 

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE GERMAN 


ONLY A GIRL. 

By Wilhelmine VON Hillern. i2mo. Extra cloth, 

#I-S°- 

“ This is a charming work, charmingly written, and no one who reads 
it can lay it down without feeling impressed with the superior talent of its 
gifted author. As a work of fiction it will compare favorably in style and 
interest with the best efforts of the most gifted writers of the day."— 
Pittsburg Dispatch. 

THE BAILIFFS MAID. 

By E. Marlitt. i2mo. Cloth, $1.25. 

“ A piece of fiction so faithful to life as to seem no fiction ; a summer 
love-idyl, invested with the nameless charm and quaintness of old-world 
existence ; a plot of the simplest and most transparent character, yet with 
mysteries and surprises so skilfully handled, and a technique so fresh and 
rich, that the book cannot be laid down until it is finished at a single sit- 
ting, — these are the light and airy qualities that constitute what may be 
called a novel of refreshment, and ‘ The Bailiff’s Maid’ possesses them in 
an eminent degree." — The American. 

IN THE SCHILLINGSCOURT. 

By E. Marlitt. i2mo. Cloth, #1.50. 

“ It is one of the best of E. Marlitt’s romances, translated by Mrs. A. 
L. Wister, who has an established reputation for excellence of judgment in 
choosing works for translation and for grace and skill in translating them." 
— New York Evening Post. 

COUNTESS GISELA. 

By E. Marlitt. i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 

“ The author of* The Old Mam’selle’s Secret' and of' Gold Elsie’ will 
never lack for admirers among the novel-reading public in this country so 
long as the translation of her writings is in the hands of Mrs. Wister. 
The present volume is marked by the same power, dramatic unity, and 
naturalness which are so characteristic of her writings.” — Chicago Evening 
Journal. 


For sale by all Booksellers. Sent by the Publishers, 
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Company, 715 and 717 Market Street, Philadelphia. 


MRS. A. L. WISTER’S 

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE GERMAN 


THE OLD MAM’SELLE’S SECRET. 

By E. Marlitt. l2mo. Cloth, #1.50; paper edition, 25 

cents. 

" It is one of the most vigorous, powerful, and fascinating of the 
series. In enlists the deepest interest from the first page and enchains it 
to the close. It is strong and graphic in its portraitures, intense and 
dramatic in its diversified coloring. Humor and pathos succeed each 
other, while the drama moves rapidly on. Opening with the mischance 
of the huntsman, presenting immediately the catastrophe of the juggler’s 
wife, and taking us thence to the home of the austere and cold Frau 
Hellwig, the scenes are swift and absorbing in their movement. The 
writer has a rare faculty of condensed and accurate delineation .” — Albany 
Journal. 

AT THE COUNCILLOR’S ; 

Or, A Nameless History. By E. Marlitt. i2mo. 

Cloth, $1.50. 

“ Mrs. A. L. Wister is the most industrious, as well as the most 
judicious and successful, of translators in the department of light litera- 
ture. She adds to the list of her gifts to readers * At the Councillor’s,' a 
romance from the German of E. Marlitt, whose writings are a mine that 
this translator has worked most successfully .” — New York Everting Post. 

THE SECOND WIFE. 

By E. Marlitt. i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 

“ We rarely encounter a novel that we can read with so much pleasure 
and can commend so unreservedly as this volume. It deserves to rank 
with the best works of modem continental novelists, even with that of 
Tourgenieff himself, whose books it somewhat resembles in tone and spirit. 
It is a striking psychological essay, a masterly study of character, and at 
the same time a vivid and fascinating picture of life. The incidents of the 
story are intensely, though not sensationally, dramatic, and the reader’s 
interest increases from the arrival of the bride to the simple but sufficient 
and satisfactory denouement.” — Literary World. 


For sale by all Booksellers. Sent by the Publishers, 
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Company, 715 and 717 Market Street, Philadelphia. 


MRS. A. L. WISTER’S 

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE GERMAN 


THE LADY WITH THE RUBIES. 

By E. Marlitt. i2mo. Extra cloth, $1.25. 

" An exceptionally interesting story, abounding in action and incident, 
the plot well constructed and skilfully wrought out. . . . Marlitt has pro- 
duced a story of great beauty and power, and Mrs. Wister has given to the 
English reader not only a grammatically accurate translation, but has caught 
and infused into it the spirit of the refined genius of the author, and thus 
preserved the peculiar literary charm which characterizes the writings of 
Marlitt .'' — Baltimore Evening News. 


VAIN FOREBODINGS. 

By E. Oswald. i2mo. Cloth, $1.25. 

“ A pure, graceful, and piquant composition, transfused with all the 
energy and force which we imagine the original to possess. Besides the 
intrinsic interest of the characters, and the situations in which they are 
placed, this story, as well as all the others which Mrs. Wister has interpreted 
to the English mind, is a thoroughly pure and honest piece of fiction." — 
Philadelphia Press. 


A PENNILESS GIRL. 

By W. Heimburg. i2mo. Cloth, $1.25. 

“ The character of Elsie, the penniless and unwelcome girl, wins the 
reader’s sympathy and love, and the denouement , which is satisfactory, 
proves that virtue and true love always are rewarded. The story is one 
that a parent need not hesitate to introduce into the family circle." — 
Norristown Herald. 


QUICKSANDS. 

By Adolph Streckfuss. i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 

“ The evidences of nationality which force themselves upon us in 
translations by inferior hands, who, as a rule, understand neither the lan- 
guage they translate from, nor the language they translate into, never 
offend us in her graceful and picturesque pages, which read as freshly and 
naturally as if English were the native tongue of their writers. The flavor 
of the German mind remains, but the idioms of the German speech have 
departed. They are thoroughly English, and thoroughly enjoyable.” — 
New York Mail and Express. 


For sale by all Booksellers. Sent by the Publishers, 
post-paid, on receipt of the price. J. B. Lippincott 
Company, 715 and 717 Market Street, Philadelphia. 


AMERICAN NOVEL SERIES. 

? SQUARE 12mo. EXTRA CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER, 50 CENTS. 

THE WITNESS OF THE SUN. 

By Amelie Rives. 


AT ANCHOR, and HONORED IN THE BREACH. 

By Julia Magruder. 


DIANA FONTAINE. 

By Algernon Ridgeway 


AN EXCEPTIONAL CASE. 

By Pm KinnEY-Reno, author of “ Miss Breckenridge,’ etc. 


THE ROMANCE OF A SPANISH NUN. 

By Aeice Montgomery Baedy. 


TWO SOLDIERS, and DUNRAVEN RANCH. 

By Captain CkareES King, U.S.A., author of “Marion’s Faith, M etc. 


A NAMELESS WRESTLER. 

By Josephine W. Bates, author of “A Blind Lead." 


A DEMORALIZING MARRIAGE. 

By Edgar Fawcett, author of “ Douglas Duane,” etc. 


SINFIRE, and DOUGLAS DUANE. 

By Julian Hawthorne, author of “Archibald Malmaison,” etc., and 
Edgar Fawcett, author of “A Gentleman of Leisure,” etc. 
Complete in one vo lume 


BRUETON’S BAYOU, and MISS DEFARGE. 

By John Habberton, author of “Helen’s Babies,” and P'rance3 
Hodgson Burnett, author of “That Lass o’ Lowrie’s.” 
Complete in one volume. 


THE DESERTER, and FROM THE RANKS. 

By Captain Charles King, author of “The Colonel’s Daughter,” etc. 


For sale by all Booksellers, or will be sent, fost-faid, by the Publ'sher; , on receipt of f>rfce. 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, 715 and 717 Market St,, Phil a. 


L-ippincott’s 3^hg7Izinb Series 

or 

AMERICAN COPYRIGHT NOVELS 

Price, 25 Cents Each. 


No. 

291. A Soldier's Secret By Capt. G'has. King. 

290. 1 toy the Royalist By William Westall. 

289. The Passing of Major Hit 'fore . . By Young E. Allison. 

288. The Fair Blockade-Breaker By T. C. De Leon. 

287. The Duke and the Commoner. By Mrs. Ponltney Bigelow. 

286. Lady Patty By “ The Duchess.” 

285. “ Carlotta's Intended .” By Ruth McEnery Stuart. 

284. A Daughter's Heart .By Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron. 

283. A Hose of a Hundred Secures. ... By Amelia E. Barr. 

282. Gold of Pleasure By George Parsons Lathrop. 

281. Vampires By Julien Gordon. 

280. Maidens Choosing By Mrs. Ellen Olney Kirk. 

279. The Sound of a Voice By Frederic S. Cozzeus. 

278. “A Wave of Life.” By Clyde Fitch. 

277. “ The Light that Failed.” By Rudyard Kipling. 

276. An A rtny Portia By Capt. Charles King. 

275. *‘A Laggard in Lore.’* .... By Jeanie Gwynn8 Bettany. 

274. A Marriage at Sea By W. Clark Russell. 

273. The Mark of the Beast . . By Katharine Pearson Woods. 

272. What Gold Cannot Buy By Mrs. Alexander. 

271. The Picture of Borian Gray By Oscar Wilde. 

270. Circumstantial Evidence By Mary E.Stickuey. 

269. A Sappho of Green Springs By Bret Harte. 

263. A Cast for Fortune By Christian Reid. 

267. Ttvo Soldiers By Capt. Chas. King, TJ.8.A. 

266. The Sign of the Four By A. Conan Doyle. 

265. Milli cent and Rosalind By Julian Hawthorne. 

254. All He lineir By John Habberton. 

263. A Belated Revenge ... By Dr. Robert Montgomery Bird. 

262. Creole and Ptiritan By T. C. De Leon. 

261. Solarion . By Edgar Fawcett. 

260. An Invention of the Enemy . . . . By W. H. Babcock. 

259. Ten Minutes to Tivelve By M. G. McClelland. 

258. A Dream of Conquest By Gen. Lloyd Bryce. 

257. A Chain of Errors ,J5y Mrs. E. W. Latimer. 

255. Bella- Demonia . . , . . By Selina Dolaro. 

254. A Transaction in Hearts . By Edgar Sal tus. 

253. Hale- Weston ...... By M. Elliot Seawell. 

252. Dunraven Ranch By Capt. Chas. King.U.S.A. 

251. Earthlings By Grace King. 


Copies mailed to any address, post-free, on receipt of 25 cents each. 

J. fi. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, Publisher*, 

7 IS and 717 Market Street, Philadelfthia. 









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